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YOUNG   LADY'S 


BOOK  OF  PROSE 


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Their  sedeiiiaiy  way  of  life  disposes  ihem.  lo  the  domes- 
quiet  amusemeni  of  reading'.: 


On  Temaie  3iu4.es  t 


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THE 


YOUNG  LADY'S  BOOK 


ii,ii^iv.S¥^  ^mo^iB^ 


COMPRISING 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  WORKS 


BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


NEW    YORK: 

PUBLISHED  BY  LEAVITT  &  ALLEN, 

27    DEY    STREET. 

1853. 


Entered  according  to  the  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year 
1835,  by  Key  &;  Bidijle,  in  the  clerk's  office  of  the  district 
court  of  the  eastern  district  of  Pennsylvania. 


PREFACE. 


The  design  of  this  little  volume  is  simi- 
lar to  that  of  "  The  Young  Man's  Book  of 
Elegant  Prose," — viz.  to  furnish  specimens 
of  a  large  number  of  the  classical  writers 
of  the  language,  characteristic  of  their  pow- 
ers, and  possessing  enough  of  interest  in 
the  subjects,  and  of  beauty  and  correctness 
in  the  style,  to  render  them  attractive  in 
themselves,  and  useful  as  models  of  fine 
writing. 

Of  course,  the  selection  has  been  made 
with  strict  reference  to  the  sex  and  intel- 
lectual requisitions  of  the  fair  readers  for 
whose  use  it  is  prepared,  and  to  whose  ser- 
vice it  is  respectfully  dedicated. 


754881 


CONTENTS. 


Aurelia  and  Fulvia  Contrasted Page  il 

A  Beau's  Head  and  a  Coquette's  Heart  Dissected  12 

The  Necessity  of  Habitual  Attention 20 

The  Power  of  Imagination 22 

Reality  Heightened  by  Imagination 25 

Chivalry 26 

Benefits  resulting  from  the  Crusades 29 

Character  of  Erasmus 32 

A  Scene  at  the  Prytaneum,  at  Paris 33 

Life  of  a  Lookmg-Glass 35 

The  Legend  of  the  Saline  River 44 

The  History  of  Betty  Broom 47 

Heidelberg 54 

Tasso's  "  Jerusalem  Delivered," 59 

The  Voyage  of  Magellan 60 

Affectation 65 

Character  of  Mary  of  Guise 71 

Death  and  Character  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. . .  72 

A  Scene  on  the  River  Spey 79 

Florisa...^k.^. 81 

The  Moon  and  Stars:  a  Fable. 86 

The  Death  of  Padilla,  and  Heroism  of  his  Wife  96 


VIU  CONTENTS. 

The  Blind  Woman 100 

Tlie  Quality  Wife 102 

The  Abdication  of  Diocletian 107 

The  Elevated  Character  of  Woman 110 

Character  of  the  Empress  Eudocia 112 

Portrait  of  a  Country  Dowager 116 

Shakespeare 122 

The  Talking  Lady 128 

Modem  Rome 135 

The  Vatican 139 

La  Roche 142 

Lucy 157 

The  Mexican  Princess 169 

Confidence  and  Modesty  :  a  Fable 175 

On  Female  Studies :  Letter  1 177 

Letter  II 181 

True  Magicians 184 

Pic-Nic 193 

The  Trial 196 

Mistaken  Kindness 208 

Arabella  Johnson 216 

On  Human  Grandeur 224 

The  Hill  of  Science 228 

Fashion 233 

TheCucuUos 241 

The  Thistle-Field 244 

The  Rough  Diamond 250 

The  Canary-Bird 251 

The  Hyacinth 252 

Interview  between  Leicester  and  the  Countess  at 
Kenilworth 254 


CONTENTS.  IX 

An  Autumnal  Evening 262 

The  Storm  Ship 264 

The  Settlement  of  New  England 271 

Colloquial  Powers  of  Dr.  Franklin 275 

Climate  and  Scenery  of  New  England 277 

On  the  Picturesque 284 

Light  290 

Walking 292 

Natural  Scenery  favourable  to  Devotion 293 

Gardens  and  Gardening 296 

Ancient  Rome 306 

Intellectual  Qualities  of  Milton 309 

On  the  Great  Historical  Ages 311 

The  Ladies  of  Llangollen 316 


YOUNG  LADY'S 
BOOK  OF   PROSE. 


AURELIA  AND  FULVIA  CONTRASTED. 

AuRELiA,  though  a  woman  of  great  q^f  ^y  f^ 
Ughts  in  the  privacy  of  pr^atel^^^^ 
away  a  great  P^^^  ^^^^^^^^TX  is  her  bosom 

Si^ntc^m^'i^^^^^^^^^^ 

love  with  her  ever  since  he  knew  her.     1  hey  Dom 

repast,  employment  and  diversion  that  ^t  looRs  hke 
n  little  commonwealth  withm  itself.  They  otten 
L  i^Vo  company,  that  they  may  return  with  greater 
delight  to  one  another ;  and  sometimes  live  in  town, 
not  fo  enjoy  it  so  properly,  as  to  grow  weary  of  i^ 
at  they  may  renew  in  themselves  the  relish  of  a 
cimitrv  life.  By  this  means  they  are  happy  m 
Ta"  oCr  be  Jed  by  their  children,  adored  by 
their  servants,  and  are  become  the  envy,  or  rather 
the  delight,  of  aU  who  know  them. 

How  different  to  this  is  the  life  of  Fulvia !  She 
considers  her  husband  as  her  steward  and  loo^ 
upon  discretion  and  good  housewifery  as  htt  e  d^ 
mestic  virtues  unbecoming  a  woman  of  quaUty. 


YOUNG    LADY  3 

She  thinks  hfe  lost  in  lur  own  lamily,  and  fancies 
herself  out  of  the  world,  when  she  is  not  in  the 
ring,  the  playhouse,  or  the  drawing-room.  She 
lives  in  a  pci  |!ctua]  motion  of  body  and  restlessness 
of  thouglit,  and  is  never  easy  in  any  one  place, 
when  she  thinks  there  is  more  company  in  another. 
The  missing  of  an  opera  the  first  night  would  be 
more  afflicting  to  her  tlian  the  death  of  a  child. 
She  pities  all  the  valuable  part  of  her  own  sex,  and 
calls  every  woman  of  a  prudent,  modest,  and  re- 
served life,  a  poor  unpolished  creature.  What  a 
mortification  would  it  be  to  Fulvia,  if  she  knew 
that  her  setting  herself  to  view  is  but  exposing 
herself,  and  that  she  grows  contemptible  by  being 
conspicuous  ! 

Addison. 


A  BEAU'S  HEAD  AND  A  COaUETTES  HEART 
DISSECTED. 

I  WAS  yesterday  engaged  in  an  assembly  of  Vir- 
tuosos, where  one  of  them  produced  many  curious 
observations  which  he  had  lately  made  in  the  ana- 
tomy of  a  human  body.  Anotlicr  of  the  company 
communicated  to  us  several  wonderful  discoveries, 
which  he  had  also  made  on  the  same  subject, 
the  help  of  very  fine  glasses.  This  gave  birth  ti. 
a  great  variety  of  uneomruou  remarks,  and  fur- 
nished discourse  for  the  rcniaining  part  of  the  day. 

The  different  opinions  which  were  started  on 
this  occasion  presented  to  my  imagination  so  many 
new  ideas,  that  by  mixing  with  those  which  were 
already  there,  they  employed  my  fancy  all  the  last 
night,  and  composed  a  very  wild  extravagant  dream, 

I  was  invited,  mcthought,  to  the  dissection  of  a 


BOOK   OF    PROSE. 

beau's  head  and  of  a  coquette's  heart,  which  were 
both  of  them  laid  on  a  table  before  us.  An  ima- 
ginary operator  opened  the  first  with  a  great  deal 
of  nicety,  which,  upon  a  cursory  and  superficial 
view,  appeared  like  the  head  of  another  man ;  but 
upon  applying  our  glasses  to  it,  we  made  a  very 
odd  discovery,  namely,  that  what  we  looked  upon 
as  brains  were  not  such  in  reality,  but  a  heap  of 
strange  materials  wound  up  in  that  shape  and  tex- 
ture, and  packed  together  with  wonderful  art  in 
the  several  cavities  of  the  skull.  For  as  Homer 
tells  us,  that  the  blood  of  the  gods  is  not  real  blood, 
but  only  something  like  it ;  so  we  found  that  the 
brain  of  the  beau  is  not  real  brain,  but  only  some- 
thing like  it 

The  pineal  gland,  which  many  of  our  modern 
philosopliers  suppose  to  be  the  seat  of  the  soul, 
smelt  very  strong  of  essence  and  orange-flower 
water,  and  was  encompassed  with  a  kind  of  horny 
substance,  cut  into  a  thousand  little  faces  or  mir- 
rors, which  were  imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye, 
insomuch  that  the  soul,  if  there  had  been  any  here, 
must  have  been  always  taken  up  in  contemplating 
her  own  beauties. 

We  observed  a  large  antrum  or  cavity  in  the  sin- 
ciput, that  was  filled  with  ribbons,  lace,  and  em- 
'  ,  wrought  together  in  a  most  curious  piece 
ork,  the  parts  of  which  were  likewise  im- 
^pitible  to  the  naked  eye.  Another  of  these 
antrum.s  or  cavities  was  stuffed  with  invisible 
billet-doux,  love-letters,  pricked  dances,  and  other 
trumpery  of  the  same  nature.  In  another  we  found 
a  kind  of  powder,  which  set  the  whole  company  a 
sneezing,  and  by  the  scent  discovered  itself  to  be 
right  Spanish.  The  several  other  cells  were  stored 
with  commodities  of  the  same  kind,  of  which  it 


would  be  tedious  to  give  tlic  reader  an  exact  in- 
ventory. 

There  was  a  larg^e  cavity  on  each  side  of  the 
head,  whicli  I  must  not  omit. .  That  on  the  right 
side  was  filled  with  fictions,  flatteries,  and  false, 
hoods,  vows,  promises,  and  protestations ;  that  on 
the  lel^  with  oaths  and  imprecations.  There  issued 
out  a  duct  from  each  of  these  cells,  wliich  ran  into 
the  root  of  tlie  tongue,  where  both  joined  together, 
and  passed  forward  in  one  common  duct  to  the  tip 
of  it.  We  discovered  several  little  roads  or  canals 
running  from  the  ear  into  the  brain,  and  took  par- 
ticular care  to  trace  them  out  through  their  several 
passages.  One  of  them  extended  itself  to  a 
bundle  of  sonnets  and  little  musical  instruments. 
Others  ended  in  several  bladders  which  were  filled 
either  with  wind  or  froth.  But  the  large  canal  en- 
tered into  a  great  cavity  of  the  skull,  from  whence 
tliere  went  another  canal  into  the  tongue.  This 
great  cavity  was  filled  with  a  kind  of  spongy  sub- 
stance, which  the  French  anatomists  call  galima- 
tias, and  the  English  nonsense. 

The  skins  of  the  forehead  were  extremely  tough 
and  thick,  and,  what  ver\  much  surprised  us,  had 
not  in  them  any  single  bWd-vessel  that  we  were 
able  to  discover,  either  with  or  without  our  glasses ; 
from  whence  we  concluded,  that  the  paJ 
alive  must  have  been  entirely  deprived  of  tj 
ty  of  blushing.  N  _^ 

The  OS  cribriforme  was  exceedingly  stuffed,  and 
in  some  places  damaged  v.  ith  snuff.  We  could  not 
but  take  notice  in  particular  of  that  small  muscle 
which  is  not  often  discovered  in  dissections,  and 
draws  the  nose  upwards,  when  it  expresses  the 
contempt  which  the  owner  of  it  has  upon  seeing 
any  thing  he  does  not  like,  or  hearing  any  thijig 


BOOK   Of   PROSE.  15 

he  does  not  understand.  I  need  not  tell  my  learn- 
ed reader,  this  is  that  muscle  which  performs  the 
motion  so  often  mentioned  by  tlie  Latin  poets, 
when  they  talk  of  a  man's  cocking  his  nose,  or 
playing  the  rhinoceros. 

We  did  not  find  any  thing  very  remarkable  in 
the  eye,  saving  only,  that  the  musculi  amatorii,  or, 
as  we  may  translate  it  into  English,  the  ogling 
muscles,  were  very  much  worn  and  decayed  with 
use ;  whereas  on  the  contrary,  the  elevator,  or  the 
muscle  which  turns  the  eye  towards  heaven,  did 
not  appear  to  have  been  used  at  all. 

I  have  only  mentioned  in  this  dissection  such 
new  discoveries  as  we  were  able  to  make,  and  have 
not  taken  any  notice  of  those  parts  which  are  to  be 
met  with  in  common  heads.  As  for  the  skull,  the 
face,  and  indeed  the  whole  outward  shape  and 
figure  of  the  head,  we  could  not  discover  any  dif- 
ference  from  what  we  observe  in  the  heads  of  other 
men.  We  were  informed,  that  the  person  to  whom 
this  head  belonged  had  passed  for  a  man  above  five- 
and-thirty  years;  during  which  time  he  ate  and 
drank  like  other  people,  dressed  well,  talked  loud, 
laughed  frequently,  and  on  particular  occasions  had 
acquitted  himself  tolerably  at  a  ball  or  an  assem- 
bly ;  to  which  one  of  the  company  added,  that  a 
certain  knot  of  ladies  took  him  for  a  wit.  He  was 
cut  off  in  the  flower  of  his  age. 

When  we  had  thoroughly  examined  this  head 
with  all  its  apartments,  and  its  several  kinds  of 
furniture,  we  put  up  the  brain,  such  as  it  Avas,  into 
its  proper  place,  and  laid  it  aside  under  a  broa'd 
piece  of  scarlet  cloth,  in  order  to  be  prepared,  and 
kept  in  a  great  repository  of  dissections ;  our  ope- 
rator telling  us  that  the  preparation  would  not  be 
so  difficult  as  that  of  another  brain,  for  that  he  had 


16  YOUNG    lady's 

observed  several  of  tlie  little  pipes  and  tubes  which 
ran  liirough  tlic  brain  were  already  filled  with  a 
kind  of  mcreurial  substance,  which  he  looked  upon 
to  be  true  quicksilver. 

He  applied  himself  in  the  next  place  to  the  co- 
quette's heart,  whicli  he  likewise  laid  open  with 
great  dexterity.  There  occurred  to  us  many  par- 
ticularities in  this  dissection  ;  but  being  unwilling 
to  burden  my  reader's  memory  too  much,  I  shall 
reserve  this  subject  for  the  speculation  of  another 
day. 

*  «  X  * 

Our  operator,  before  he  engaged  in  this  visiona- 
ry dissection,  told  us,  that  there  was  nothing  in  his 
art  more  difficult  than  to  lay  open  the  heart  of  a 
coquette,  by  reason  of  the  many  labyrinths  and  re 
cesses  which  are  to  be  found  in  it,  and  which  do 
not  appear  in  the  heart  of  any  other  animal. 

He  desired  us  first  of  all  to  observe  the  pericar 
dium,  or  outward  case  of  the  heart,  which  we  did 
very  attentively ;  and  by  the  help  of  our  glasses 
discerned  in  it  millions  of  little  scars,  which  seem- 
ed to  have  been  occasioned  by  the  points  of  innu- 
merable darts  and  arrows,  that  from  time  to  time 
had  glanced  upon  the  outward  coat ;  though  we 
could  not  discover  the  smallest  orifice  by  which 
any  of  them  had  entered  and  pierced  the  inward 
substance. 

Every  smatterer  m  anatomy  knows  that  this 
pericardium,  or  case  of  the  heart,  contains  in  it  a 
thin  reddish  liquor,  supposed  to  be  bred  from  the 
vapours  which  exhale  out  of  the  heart,  and  being 
stopped  here,  are  condensed  into  this  watery  sub- 
stance. Upon  examining  this  liquor,  we  found  that 
it  had  in  it  all  the  qualities  of  that  spirit  wh^ci>  in 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  17 

made  use  of  in  the  thermometer,  to  show  the  change 
of  weather. 

Nor  must  I  here  omit  an  experiment  one  of  the 
company  assured  us  he  liiinself  had  made  with 
this  liquor,  which  he  found  in  great  quantity  about 
the  heart  of  a  coquette  wliom  he  had  formerly  dis- 
sected. He  affirmed  to  us,  that  he  had  actually  in- 
closed it  in  a  small  tube  made  after  the  manner 
of  a  weather-g-lass ;  but  that  instead  of  acquaint- 
ing- him  with  the  variations  of  the  atmosphere,  it 
showed  him  the  qualities  of  those  persons  who  en- 
tered the  room  where  it  stood.  He  affirmed  also, 
tliat  it  rose  at  tlie  approach  of  a  plume  of  feathers, 
an  embroidered  coat,  or  a  pair  of  fringed  gloves ; 
and  that  it  fell  as  soon  as  an  ill-shaped  periwig,  a 
clumsy  pair  of  shoes,  or  an  unfashionable  coat, 
came  into  his  house  :  nay,  he  proceeded  so  far  as 
to  assure  us,  that  upon  his  laughing  aloud  when 
he  stood  by  it,  the  liquor  mounted  very  sensibly, 
and  immediately  sunk  again  upon  his  looking  se- 
rious. In  sliort,  he  told  us,  that  he  knew  very  well 
by  this  invention  whenever  he  had  a  man  of  sense 
or  a  coxcomb  in  his  room. 

Having  cleared  away  the  pericardium,  or  the 
case  and  liquor  above  mentioned,  we  came  to  the 
heart  itself  Tlie  outward  surface  of  it  was  ex- 
tremely slippery,  and  the  mucro,  or  point,  so  very 
cold  withal,  that,  upon  endeavouring  to  take  hold 
of  it,  it  glided  through  the  fingers  like  a  smooth 
piece  of  ice. 

The  fibres  were  turned  and  twisted  in  a  more 
intricate  and  perplexed  marmer  than  they  are  usu- 
ally found  in  other  hearts  ;  insomuch  that  the 
whole  heart  was  wound  up  together  in  a  Gordian 
knot,  and  must  have  had  very  irregular  and  une- 
2 


18  YOUNG   lady's 

qual  motions,  whilst  it  was  employed  in  its  vital 
function. 

One  thing-  we  thought  very  observable,  namely, 
that,  upon  examining-  all  the  vessels  which  came 
into  it  or  issued  out  of  it,  we  could  not  discover 
any  communication  that  it  had  with  the  tongue. 

We  could  not  but  take  notice,  likewise,  that  se- 
veral of  those  little  nerves  in  the  heart  which  arc 
affected  by  the  sentiments  of  love,  hatred,  and 
other  passions,  did  not  descend  to  this  before  us 
from  the  brain,  but  from  the  muscles  which  lie 
about  tlie  eye. 

Upon  weighing  the  heart  in  my  hand,  I  found 
it  to  be  extremely  light,  and  consequently  very  hol- 
low, wliich  I  did  not  wonder  at,  when,  upon  look- 
ing into  the  inside  of  it,  I  saw  multitudes  of  cells 
and  cavities  running  one  within  another,  as  our 
historians  describe  the  apartments  of  Rosamond's 
bower.  Several  of  these  little  hollows  were  stuffed 
with  innumerable  sorts  of  trifles,  which  I  shall 
forbear  giving  any  particular  account  of,  and  shall 
therefore  only  take  notice  of  what  lay  first  and  up- 
permost, which,  upon  our  unfolding  it  and  apply- 
ing our  microscopes  to  it,  appeared  to  be  a  flame- 
coloured  hood. 

We  were  informed  that  the  lady  of  this  heart, 
when  living,  received  the  addresses  of  several  who 
made  love  to  her,  and  did  not  only  give  each  of 
them  encouragement,  but  made  every  one  she  con- 
versed with  believe  that  she  regarded  him  with  an 
eye  of  kindness  ;  for  whi<;h  reason  we  expected  to 
have  seen  the  impression  of  multitudes  of  faces 
among  the  several  plaits  and  foldings  of  the  heart; 
but  to  our  great  surprise  not  a  single  print  of  this 
nature  discovered  itself  till  we  came  into  the  very 


BOOK   OF    TROSE.  19 

core  and  centre  of  it.  We  there  observed  a  little 
figure,  which,  upon  applying  our  glasses  to  it,  ap- 
peared  dressed  in  a  very  fantastic  manner.  The 
more  I  looked  upon  it,  the  more  I  thouglit  I  had 
seen  the  face  before,  but  could  not  possibly  recol- 
lect either  the  place  or  time ;  when,  at  length,  one 
of  the  company,  who  had  examined  this  figure 
more  nicely  than  the  rest,  showed  us  plainly  by  the 
make  of  its  face,  and  tlie  several  turns  of  its  fea- 
tures, that  the  little  idol  wliich  was  thus  lodged  in 
the  very  middle  of  the  heart  was  the  deceased 
beau,  whose  head  I  gave  some  accomit  of  in  my 
last  Tuesday's  paper. 

As  soon  as  we  had  finished  our  dissection,  we 
resolved  to  make  an  experiment  on  the  heart,  not 
being  able  to  determine  among  ourselves  the  na- 
ture of  its  substance,  which  differed  in  so  many 
particulars  from  that  of  the  heart  of  other  females. 
Accordingly  we  laid  it  into  a  pan  of  burning  coals, 
when  we  observed  in  it  a  certain  salamandrine 
quality,  that  made  it  capable  of  living  in  the  midst 
of  fire  and  flame,  without  being  consumed,  or  so 
much  as  singed. 

As  we  were  admiring  this  strange  phenomenon, 
and  standing  round  the  heart  in  a  circle,  it  gave  a 
most  prodigious  sigh,  or  rather  crack,  and  dispers- 
ed all  at  once  in  smoke  and  vapour.  This  imagi- 
nary noise,  which  methought  was  louder  than  the 
burst  of  a  cannon,  produced  such  a  violent  shake 
in  my  brain,  that  it  dissipated  the  fumes  of  sleep, 
and  left  me  in  an  instant  broad  awake. 

Addison. 


20  YOUNG    LADY  S 


THE  NECESSITY  OF  HABITUAL  ATTENTION 

The  rule  here  liinted  at  should  never,  on  any 
occasion,  be  forgotten.  It  is  a  matter  of  no  small 
importance,  that  we  acquire  a  habit  of  doing  only 
one  thing  at  a  time  :  by  which  I  mean,  that  while 
employed  on  any  one  object  our  thoughts  ought 
not  to  wander  to  another.  When  we  go  liom  homt- 
in  quest  of  amusement,  or  to  the  fields  for  the  sake 
of  exercise,  we  shall  do  well  to  leave  all  our  specu- 
lations behind  :  if  we  carry  them  v>'ith  us,  the  ex- 
ercise will  fatigue  the  body  without  refreshing  it; 
and  the  amusement,  instead  of  enlivening,  will  dis- 
tract the  soul :  and,  both  in  the  one  case  and  in 
the  other,  we  shall  confirm  ourselves  in  those  ha- 
bits of  inattention,  which,  when  long  persisted  in, 
form  what  is  called  an  absent  man.  In  conversa- 
tion too,  let  us  always  mind  what  is  saying  and 
doing  around  us,  and  never  give  the  company 
ground  to  suspect  that  our  thoughts  arc  elsewhere. 
Attention  is  a  chief  part  of  politeness.  An  absent 
man,  provided  he  is  good-natured,  may  be  bonn: 
with,  but  never  can  be  agreeable.  He  may  com- 
mand our  esteem,  if  we  knov/  him  to  be  wise  and 
^^rtuous ;  but  he  cannot  engage  our  love.  For  in- 
attention implies  negligence,  and  neglect  often  pro- 
ceeds from  contempt :  if,  therefore,  we  find  tlial 
we  are  not  attended  to,  we  shall  fancy  that  we  arc 
neglected,  and  to  a  certain  degree  despised :  and 
how  is  it  possible  to  repay  contempt  with  kind- 
ness I  And  when  unkindness  and  dissatisfaction 
prevail  in  any  society,  all  the  comforts  of  it  are  at 
an  end.  Besides,  if  we  are  not  strictly  obt;ervant 
of  every  thing  that  passes  in  company,  we  cannot 
be  either  amused  by  it   or   instructed ;   in  other 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  21 

words,  we  deprive  ourselves  of  much  innocent 
pleasure  and  useful  information.  For  a  great  deal 
of  our  best  knowledge  is  obtained  by  mutual  inter- 
course :  and  for  the  most  valuable  comforts  of  life 
we  are  indebted  to  the  social  and  benevolent  atten- 
tions of  one  another. 

Let  it  not  be  objected,  that  some  great  men,  as 
Newton,  have  been  remarkably  absent  in  company. 
Persons,  who  are  engaged  in  sublime  study,  and 
who  are  known  to  employ  their  time  and  faculties 
in  adorning  human  nature  by  the  investigation  of 
useful  truth,  may  be  indulged  in  such  peculiarities 
of  behaviour,  as  in  men  of  common  talents  neither 
are,  nor  ought  to  be  tolerated.  For,  in  regard  to 
the  former,  we  are  willing  to  suppose,  that,  if  they 
overlook  us,  it  is  because  they  arc  engrossed  by 
matters  of  greater  importance  :  but  this  is  a  com- 
pliment, which  we  should  not  think  ourselves 
obliged  to  pay  the  latter,  at  least  in  ordinary  cases. 
And  I  scruple  not  to  say,  that  it  would  have  been 
better  for  Newton  himself,  as  well  as  for  society, 
if  he  had  been  free  from  the  weakness  abovemen- 
tioned.  For  then  his  thoughts  and  his  amusements 
would  have  been  more  diversified,  and  his  healtli 
probably  better,  and  his  precious  life  still  longer 
than  it  was :  and  a  mind  like  his,  fully  displayed 
in  free  and  general  conversation,  would  have  been, 
to  all  who  had  the  happiness  to  approach  him,  an 
inexhaustible  source  of  instruction  and  delight. 

Great,  indeed,  and  many  are  the  advantages  of 
habitual  attention.  Clearness  of  understanding, 
extensive  knowledge,  and  exact  memory,  are  its 
natural  consequences.  It  is  even  beneficial  to 
health,  by  varying  the  succession  of  our  ideas  and 
sensations ;  and  it  gives  us  the  command  of  our 
thoughts,  and  enables  us  at  all  times  to  act  rcadilj", 


22  YOUNG  lady's 

and  with  presence  of  mind.  As  they  who  live  re- 
tired are  disconcerted  at  tiie  sight  of  a  stranger ; 
as  he  whose  body  has  never  been  made  pliant  by 
exercise  cannot  perform  new  motions  either  grace- 
fully or  easily ;  so  the  man,  who  has  contracted  a 
habit  of  ruminating  uj)on  a  few  things  and  over- 
looking others,  is  fluttered,  and  at  a  loss,  wlienever 
he  finds  himself,  as  he  ollen  docs,  in  unexpected 
circumstances.  He  looks  round  amazed,  like  one 
raised  suddenly  from  sleep.  Not  remembering 
what  happened  the  last  moment,  he  knows  nothing 
of  the  cause  of  the  present  appearance,  nor  can 
form  any  conjecture  with  respect  to  its  tendency. 
If  you  ask  him  a  question,  it  is  some  time  before 
he  can  recollect  himself  so  far  as  to  attend  to  you  ; 
he  hesitates,  and  you  must  repeat  your  words  be- 
fore he  can  understand  them :  and  when  he  has 
with  difficulty  made  himself  master  of  your  mean- 
ing, he  cannot,  without  an  effort,  keep  out  of  his 
usual  track  of  thinking,  so  long  as  is  necessary  for 
framing  an  explicit  reply.  This  may  look  like 
exaggeration  ;  but  nothing  is  more  certain,  than 
that  habits  of  inattention,  contracted  early,  and 
long  persisted  in,  will  in  time  form  such  a  charac- 
ter. Beattie. 


THE  POWER  OF  IMAGINATION. 

In  a  large  and  uninhabited  building,  like  a 
church,  the  wind  may  howl;  doors  and  windows 
may  clap ;  the  creaking  of  rusty  hinges  may  be 
heard ;  a  stone,  or  a  bit  of  plaster,  may  drop  with 
some  noise  from  the  mouldering  wall ;  the  light 
of  the  moon  may  gleam  unexpectedly  tlirough  a 
cranny,  and,  where  it  falls  on  the  broken  pave- 
ment, form  an  appearance  not  unlike  a  human  face 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  23 

illuminated,  or  a  naked  human  body,  which  the 
peajant,  whose  chance  it  is  to  see  it,  may  readily 
mistake  for  a  ghost,  or  some  otlier  tremendous  be- 
ing-. In  the  forsaken  apartments  of  an  old  castle, 
rats  and  jack-daws  may  raise  an  uproar,  that  shall 
seem  to  shake  the  whole  edifice  to  the  foundatioi>^ 
Piles  of  ruins,  especially  when  surrounded  with 
trees  and  underwood,  give  shelter  to  owls  and  wild 
cats,  and  other  creatures,  whose  screaming,  redou- 
bled with  echoes,  may,  to  the  superstitious  ear, 
seem  to  be,  as  Shakspcare  says,  "  no  mortal  busi- 
ness,  nor  no  sound  that  the  earth  owns."  In  deep 
groves,  by  twilight,  our  vision  must  be  so  indistinct, 
that  a  bush  may,  without  enchantment,  assume  tlie 
form  of  a  fiend  or  monster ;  and  the  crashing  ol' 
branches,  tossed  by  the  wind,  or  grated  against 
one  another,  may  sound  like  groans  and  lamenta- 
tions. By  the  side  of  a  river,  in  a  still  or  in  a 
stormy  evening,  many  noises  may  be  heard,  suffi- 
cient to  alarm  tliose,  who  would  rather  tremble  at 
a  prodigy,  than  investigate  a  natural  cause  :  a  sud- 
den change,  or  increase  of  the  wind,  by  swelling 
tlie  roar  of  the  far-off  torrent,  or  by  dashing  the 
waters  in  a  new  direction  against  rocks  or  hollow 
banks,  may  produce  hoarse  and  unconunon  sounds; 
and  the  innocent  gambols  of  a  few  otters  have  been 
known  to  occasion  those  yells,  which  the  vulgar 
of  this  country  mistake  for  laugliing  or  crying, 
and  ascribe  to  a  certain  goblin,  who  is  supposed  to 
dwell  in  the  waters,  and  to  take  delight  in  drown- 
ing the  bewildered  travcher. 

These,  and  tlie  like  considerations,  if  duly  at- 
tended  to,  would  overcome  many  of  those  terrors 
that  hamit  the  ignorant  and  the  credulous,  restore 
soundness  to  the  imagination,  and,  as  Persius  says. 


24  YOUNG  lady's 

in  liis  usual  rough  but  expressive  manner,  "  pull 
the  old  grandmother  out  of  our  entrails."  And 
tlie  liabit  of  encountering  such  imaginary  terrors, 
and  of  being  otten  alone  in  darkness,  will  greatly 
conduce  to  the  same  end.  The  spirit  of  tree  in- 
<|uiry,  too,  is  in  this,  as  in  all  other  respects,  friend- 
ly to  our  nature.  13y  the  glimmering  of  the  moon, 
I  have  onee  and  again  beheld,  at  midnight,  tlie  ex- 
act  form  of  a  man  or  woman,  sitting  silent  and 
motionless  by  my  bedside.  Had  I  hid  my  head, 
without  daring  to  look  the  apparition  in  the  face, 
I  sliould  have  passed  the  night  in  horrors,  and 
risen  in  the  morning  with  the  persuasion  of  having 
seen  a  ghost.  But,  rousing  myself,  and  resolving 
to  find  out  the  truth,  I  discovered,  that  it  was  no- 
tliing  more  than  the  accidental  disposition  of  my 
clothes  upon  a  chair. — Once  I  remember  to  have 
been  alarmed  at  seeing,  by  the  faint  liglit  of  the 
dawn,  a  coffin  laid  out  between  my  bed  and  the 
window.  I  started  up ;  and  recollecting,  that  1 
had  heard  of  such  things  having  been  seen  by 
others,  I  set  myself  to  examine  it,  and  found,  that 
it  was  only  a  stream  of  yellowish  light,  falling  in 
a  particular  manner  upon  the  floor,  from  between 
tlie  window-curtains.  And  so  lively  was  the  ap- 
pearance, that,  after  I  was  thoroughly  satisfied  of 
the  cause,  it  continued  to  impose  on  my  sight  as 
before,  till  the  increasing  light  of  the  morning  dis- 
polled  it. — These  facts  are  perhaps  too  trivial  to  be 
recorded  :  but  they  serve  to  show,  that  free  inquiry, 
with  a  very  small  degree  of  fortitude,  may  some- 
times, when  one  is  willing  to  be  rational,  prove  a 
cure  to  certain  diseases  of  imagination. 

Beattie. 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  25 

REALITY  HEIGHTENED  BY  IMAGIISTATION. 

In  the  beginning-  of  life,  and  while  experience 
is  confined  to  a  small  circle,  we  admire  every  thing, 
and  are  pleased  with  very  moderate  excellence.  A 
peasant  thinks  the  hall  of  his  landlord  the  finest 
apartment  in  the  universe,  listens  with  rapture  to 
the  strolling  ballad-singer,  and  wonders  at  the  rude 
wooden  cuts  that  adorn  his  ruder  compositions.  A 
child  looks  upon  his  native  village  as  a  town  ;  upon 
the  brook  that  runs  by  as  a  river  ;  and  upon  the 
meadows  and  hills  in  the  ncighbourliood,  as  the 
most  spacious  and  beautiful  that  can  be.  But 
when,  after  a  long  absence,  he  returns,  in  his  de- 
clining years,  to  visit  once  before  he  die  the  dear 
spot  that  gave  him  birth,  and  those  scenes  whereof 
lie  remembers  rather  the  original  charms  than  the 
exact  proportions,  how  is  he  disappointed  to  find 
every  thing  so  debased  and  so  diminished !  The 
hills  seem  to  have  sunk  into  the  ground,  the  brook 
to  be  dried  up,  and  the  village  to  be  forsaken  of 
its  people  ;  the  parish-church,  stripped  of  all  its 
fancied  magnificence,  is  become  low,  gloomy,  and 
narrow  ;  and  the  fields  are  now  only  the  miniature 
of  what  they  were.  Had  he  never  left  this  spot, 
his  notions  might  have  remained  the  same  as  at 
first ;  and  had  he  travelled  but  a  little  way  firom  it, 
they  would  not  perhaps  have  received  any  material 
enlargement.  It  seems  then  to  be  from  observation 
of  many  things  of  the  same  or  similar  kinds,  that  wc 
acquire  the  talent  of  forming  ideas  more  perfect 
than  the  real  objects  that  lie  immediately  around 
us:  and  these  ideas  we  may  improve  gradually 
more  and  more,  according  to  the  vivacity  of  our 
mind,  and  extent  of  our  experience,  till  at  last  we 


26  YOUNG  lady's 

come  to  raise  tliem  to  a  degree  of  perfection  su 
perior  to  any  thinfr  to  be  found  in  real  life.  There 
cannot,  sure,  be  any  mystery  in  this  doctrine ;  for 
we  think  and  speak  to  the  same  purpose  every 
day.  Thus  nothinor  is  more  common  than  to  say, 
that  such  an  artist  excels  all  wc  have  ever  known 
in  his  profession,  and  yet  that  wc  can  still  conceive 
a  superior  performance.  A  moralist,  by  bringin^r 
together  into  one  view  the  separate  virtues  ot' 
many  persons,  is  enabled  to  lay  down  a  system  of 
duty  more  perfect  than  any  he  has  ever  seen  ex- 
emplified in  human  conduct.  Whatever  be  the 
emotion  the  poet  intends  to  raise  in  his  reader, 
whetlier  adniiration  or  terror,  joy  or  sorrow;  and 
whatever  be  tlie  object  he  would  exhibit,  whether 
Venus  or  Tisiphone,  Achilles  or  Thcrsites,  a  palace 
or  a  pile  of  ruins,  a  dance  or  a  battle,  he  generally 
copies  an  idea  of  his  own  imagination  ;  consider- 
ing each  quality  as  it  is  found  to  exist  in  several 
individuals  of  a  species,  and  thence  forming  an 
assemblage  more  or  less  perfect  in  its  kind,  ac- 
cording to  the  purpose  to  which  he  means  to  ap- 
ply it. 

Beattie. 


CHIVALRY. 

While  improvement,  so  important  with  respect 
to  the  state  of  society  and  the  administration  of 
justice,  gradually  made  progress  in  Europe,  sen- 
tirnents  more  liberal  and  generous  had  begun  to 
animate  the  nobles.  These  were  inspired  by  the 
spirit  of  chivalry,  which  though  considered,  com- 
monly, as  a  wild  institution,  the  effect  of  caprice, 
and  the  source  of  extravagance,  arose  naturally 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  27 

from  the  state  of  society  at  that  period,  and  had  a 
very  serious  influence  in  refining  the  manners  of 
the  European  nations.  The  feudal  state  was  a 
state  of  ahnost  perpetual  war,  rapine,  and  anarchy  ; 
during-  which  the  weak  and  unarmed  were  exposed 
to  insults  or  injuries.  The  power  of  the  sovereign 
was  too  limited  to  prevent  these  wrongs  ;  and  the 
administration  of  justice  too  feeble  to  redress  them. 
The  most  effectual  protection  against  violence  and 
oppression  was  often  found  to  be  tliat  which  the 
valour  and  generosity  of  private  persons  afforded. 
The  same  spirit  of  enterprise  which  had  prompted 
so  many  gentlemen  to  take  arms  in  defence  of  the 
oppressed  pilgrims  in  Palestine,  incited  others  to 
declare  themselves  the  patrons  and  avengers  of 
injured  innocence  at  home.  When  the  final  re- 
duction of  the  Holy  Land  under  the  dominion  of 
infidels  put  an  end  to  these  foreign  expeditions, 
the  latter  was  the  only  employment  left  for  the 
activity  and  courage  of  adventurers.  To  check  the 
insolence  of  overgrown  oppressors ;  to  rescue  the 
helpless  from  captivity ;  to  protect  or  to  avenge 
women,  orphans,  and  ecclesiastics,  who  could  not 
bear  arms  in  their  own  defence  ;  to  redress  wrongs, 
and  to  remove  grievances ;  were  deemed  acts  of 
the  highest  prowess  and  merit.  Valour,  humanity, 
courtesy,  justice,  honour,  were  the  characteristic 
qualities  of  chivalry.  To  tliese  was  added  religion, 
which  mingled  itself  with  every  passion  and  in- 
stitution during  the  middle  ages,  and,  by  infusing 
a  large  proportion  of  enthusiastic  zeal,  gave  them 
such  force  as  carried  them  to  romantic  excess. 
Men  were  trained  to  knighthood  by  a  long  previ- 
ous discipline ;  they  were  admitted  into  the  order 
by  solemnities  no  less  devout  than  pompous ;  every 
person  of  noble  birth  courted  that  honour ;  it  was 


28  YODNG    lady's 

deemed  a  distinction  superior  to  royalty ;  and  mo- 
narchs  were  proud  to  receive  it  from  the  hands  of" 
private  gentlemen. 

This  singular  institution,  in  which  valour,  gal- 
lantry, and  religion,  were  so  strangely  blended, 
was  wonderfully  adapted  to  the  taste  and  genius 
of  martial  nobles ;  and  its  effects  were  soon  visible 
in  their  manners.  War  was  carried  on  with  less 
ferocity,  when  humanity  came  to  be  deemed  the 
ornament  of  knighthood  no  less  than  courage. 
More  gentle  and  polished  manners  were  intro- 
duced, when  courtesy  was  recommended  as  the 
most  amiable  of  knightly  virtues.  Violence  and 
oppression  decreased,  when  it  was  reckoned  meri- 
torious to  check  and  to  punish  them.  A  scrupu- 
lous adherence  to  truth,  with  the  most  religious 
attention  to  fulfil  every  engagement,  became  the 
distinguishing  characteristic  of  a  gentleman,  be- 
cause chivalry  was  regarded  as  the  school  of 
honour,  and  inculcated  the  most  delicate  sensibili- 
ty with  respect  to  those  points.  Tlie  admiration 
of  these  qualities,  together  with  the  higli  distinc- 
tions and  prerogatives  conferred  on  knighthood  in 
every  part  of  Europe,  inspired  persons  of  noble 
birth  on  some  occasions  with  a  species  of  military 
fanaticism,  and  led  them  to  extravagant  enter- 
prises. But  they  deeply  imprinted  on  their  minds 
the  principles  of  generosity  and  honour.  These 
were  strengthened  by  every  thing  that  can  affect 
the  senses  or  touch  the  heart.  The  wild  exploits 
of  those  romantic  knights  who  sallied  forth  in 
quest  of  adventures  are  well  known,  and  have  been 
treated  with  proper  ridicule.  The  political  and 
permanent  eftccts  of  the  spirit  of  chivalry  have 
been  less  observed.  Perhaps,  the  humanity  which 
accompanies  all  the  operations  of  war,  the  refine. 


BOOK   OF   PROSK.  29 

ments  of  gallantry,  and  the  point  of  honour,  the 
three  chief  circumstances  which  distinguisli  mo- 
dern from  ancient  manners,  may  be  ascribed  in  a 
great  measure  to  this  institution,  which  has  ap- 
peared whimsical  to  superficial  observers,  but  by 
its  effects  has  proved  of  great  benefit  to  mankind. 
The  sentiments  which  chivalry  inspired  had  a  won- 
derful influence  on  manners  and  conduct  during 
the  twelttli,  thirteenth,  fourteenth,  and  fifteenth 
centuries.  Tlie^'  were  so  deeply  rooted,  that  they 
continued  to  operate  after  the  vigour  and  reputa- 
tion of  the  institution  itself  began  to  decline.  Some 
considerable  transactions,  recorded  in  the  follow- 
ing history,  resemble  the  adventurous  exploits  of 
chivalry,  ratlier  than  the  well-regulated  operations 
of  sound  policy.  Some  of  the  most  eminent  per- 
sonages, whose  characters  will  be  delineated,  were 
strongly  tinctured  with  this  romantic  spirit.  Fran- 
cis I.  was  ambitious  to  distinguish  himself  by  aJl 
the  qualities  of  an  accomplished  knight,  and  en- 
deavoured to  imitate  the  enterprising  genius  of 
chivalry  in  war,  as  well  as  its  pomp  and  courtesy 
during  peace.  The  fame  which  the  French  mo- 
narch acquired  by  these  splendid  actions,  so  far 
dazzled  his  more  temperate  rival,  that  he  departed 
on  some  occasions  from  his  usual  prudence  and 
moderation,  and  emulated  Francis  in  deeds  of 
prowess  or  of  gallantry. 

Robertson. 


BENEFITS  RESULTIIVG  FROM  THE  CRUSADES. 

But  from  these  expeditions,  extravagant  as  they 
were,  beneficial  consequences  followed,  which  had 
neither  been  foreseen  nor  expected.     In  their  pro- 


30  YOUNG    lady's 

gress  towards  the  Holy  Land,  the  followers  of  the 
cross  marched  throug-h  countries  better  cultivated 
and  more  civilized  than  their  own.  Their  first 
rendezvous  wis  commonly  in  Italy,  in  which  Ve- 
nice, Genoa,  Pisa,  and  other  cities,  had  begun  to 
apply  themselves  to  commerce,  and  had  made  con- 
siderable advances  towards  wealth  as  well  as  re- 
finement. They  embarked  there,  and,  landing  in 
Dalmatia,  pursued  their  route  by  land  to  ConstaH- 
tinople.  Though  the  military  spiril  had  been  long 
extinct  in  the  Eastern  Empire,  and  a  despotism 
of  the  worst  species  had  annihilated  almost  every 
public  virtue;  yet  Constantinople,  having  never 
felt  the  destructive  rage  of  the  barbarous  nations, 
was  the  greatest  as  well  as  the  most  beautiful  city 
in  Europe,  and  the  only  one  in  which  there  re- 
mained any  image  of  the  ancient  elegance  in 
manners  and  arts.  The  naval  power  of  the  Eastern 
Empire  was  considerable.  Manufactures  of  the 
most  curious  fabric  were  carried  on  in  its  domini- 
ons. Constantinople  was  the  chief  mart  in  Europe 
for  the  commodities  of  the  East  Indies.  Although 
the  Saracens  and  Turks  had  torn  from  the  Empire 
many  of  its  richest  provinces,  and  had  reduced  it 
within  very  narrow  bounds,  yet  great  wealth  flow- 
ed into  the  capital  from  these  various  sources, 
which  not  only  cherished  sucli  a  taste  for  magnifi- 
cence, but  kept  alive  such  a  relish  for  the  sciences, 
as  appears  considerable  when  compared  with  what 
was  known  in  other  parts  of  Europe.  Even  in 
Asia,  the  Europeans,  who  had  assumed  the  cross, 
found  the  remains  of  the  knowledge  and  arts 
which  the  example  and  encouragement  of  the  ca- 
liphs had  diffused  through  their  empire.  Although 
the  attention  of  the  historians  of  the  Crusades  was 
fixed  on  other  objects  than  the  state  of  society  and 


BOOK    OF   PROSE.  31 

manners  among^  the  nations  vvhicli  they  invaded ; 
although  most  of  them  had  neither  taste  nor  dis- 
cernment enough  to  describe  these ;  they  relate, 
however,  such  signal  acts  of  humanity  and  gene- 
rosity in  the  conduct  of  Salad  in,  as  well  as  some 
other  leaders  of  the  Mahometans,  as  give  us  a  very 
high  idea  of  tlieir  manners.  It  was  not  possible 
for  the  Crusaders  to  travel  through  so  many  coun- 
tries, and  to  behold  tlieir  various  customs  and  in- 
stitutions, without  acquiring  information  and  im- 
provement. Their  views  enlarged  ;  their  preju- 
dices wore  otF;  new  ideas  crowded  into  their 
minds  ;  and  they  must  have  been  sensible,  on  many 
occasions,  of  the  rusticity  of  their  own  manners 
when  compared  with  those  of  a  more  polished 
people.  These  impressions  were  not  so  slight  as 
to  be  effaced  upon  their  return  to  their  native 
countrres.  A  close  intercourse  subsisted  between 
tlie  East  and  West  during  two  centuries  ;  new  ar- 
mies were  continually  marcliing  from  Europe  to 
Asia,  while  former  adventurers  returned  home  and 
imported  many  of  the  customs  to  which  they  had 
been  familiarized  by  a  long  residence  abroad.  Ac- 
cordingly, we  discover  soon  after  the  commence- 
ment of  the  Crusades,  greater  splendour  in  the 
courts  of  princes,  greater  pomp  in  public  ceremo- 
uies,  a  more  refined  taste  in  pleasure  and  amuse, 
ments,  together  with  a  more  romantic  spirit  of 
enterprise,  spreading  gradually  over  Europe ;  and 
to  these  wild  expeditions,  the  effect  of  superstition 
or  folly,  we  owe  the  first  gleams  of  light  which 
tended  to  dispel  barbarism  and  ignorance. 

Robertson. 


32  YOUNG    lady's 


CHARACTER  OF  ERASMUS. 

His  reputation  and  authority  were  so  high  in 
Europe  at  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  his  works  were  read  with  such  universal  ad- 
niirvition,  that  tiie  effect  of  these  deserves  to  be 
mentioned  as  one  of  the  circumstances  which  con- 
tributed considerably  towards  Luther's  success. 
Erasmus,  having  been  destined  for  the  church, 
and  trained  up  in  the  knowledge  of  ecclesiastical 
literature,  applied  himself  more  to  theological  in- 
quiries than  any  of  the  revivers  of  learning  in  that 
age.  His  acute  judgment  and  extensive  erudition 
enabled  him  to  discover  many  errors,  both  in  the 
doctrine  and  worship  of  the  Romish  clmrch.  ISomc 
of  these  he  confuted  with  great  solidity  of  reason- 
ing and  force  of  eloquence.  Others  he  treated  as 
objects  of  ridicule,  and  turned  against  them  that 
irresistible  torrent  of  poj)ular  and  satirical  wit,  of 
which  he  had  the  command.  There  was  hardly 
any  opinion  or  practice  of  the  Romish  church 
which  Luther  endeavoured  to  reform,  but  what 
had  been  previously  animadverted  upon  by  Eras- 
nms,  and  had  aftbrded  him  subject  either  of  cen- 
sure or  of  raillery.  Accordingly,  when  Luther 
first  began  his  attack  upon  the  church,  Erasmus 
seemed  to  aj>plaud  his  conduct ;  he  courted  tlic 
friendship  of  several  of  his  disciples  and  patrons, 
and  condemned  tlae  behaviour  and  spirit  of  his  ad- 
versaries. He  concurred  openly  with  him  in  in- 
veighing against  the  school  divines,  as  the  tcaclicis 
of  a  system  equally  uncdifying  and  obscure.  He 
joined  him  in  endeavouring  to  turn  the  attention 
of  men  to  the  study  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  as  the 
only  standard  of  religious  truth. 


BOOK  OF  rnosE.  33 

Various  circumstances,  liowevcr,  prevented  Eras- 
mus from  holding-  the  same  course  with  Luther. 
The  natural  timidity  of  his  temper ;  liis  want  of 
that  strength  of  mind  which  alone  can  prompt  a 
man  to  assume  the  character  of  a  reformer ;  his 
excessive  deference  for  persons  in  high  stations ; 
liis  dread  of  losing  the  pensions  and  otiier  emolu- 
ments which  their  liberality  had  conferred  upon 
him ;  his  extreme  love  of  peace,  iind  liopes  of  re- 
forming abuses  gradually,  and  by  gentle  methods; 
all  concurred  in  determining  him  not  only  to  re- 
press and  to  moderate  the  zeal  with  which  he  had 
once  been  animated  against  the  errors  of  the 
church,  but  to  assume  the  character  of  a  mediator 
between  Luther  and  his  opponents.  But  though 
Erasmus  soon  began  to  censure  Ijuther  as  too 
daring  and  impetuous,  and  was  at  last  prevailed 
upon  to  write  against  him,  he  must  ncvertlieless 
be  considered  as  his  ibrcrunner  and  auxiliary  in 
this  war  upon  the  church.  He  first  scattered  the 
seeds,  which  Luther  cherished  and  brought  to  ma- 
turity. His  raillery  and  oblique  censures  prepared 
the  way  for  Lutlicr's  invectives  and  more  direct 
attacks.  In  this  light  Erasmus  appeared  to  the 
zealous  defenders  of  the  Romish  church  in  his 
own  times.  In  this  light  he  must  be  considered 
by  every  person  conversant  in  the  history  of  that 
period. 

Robertson. 


A  SCEXE  AT  THE  PRYTANEUM,  AT  PARIS. 

I  PAID  several  visits  to  the  Prytanenm.  The 
tirst  time,  upon  my  arrival,  the  gate  happened  to 
be  shut:  the  clock  was  striking  one,  and  tlic  pupils 


34  YOUNG    lady's 

had  just  done  dinner,  when  they  are  at  liberty  to 
walk,  run,  play,  and  amuse  themselves  in  the 
court-yards.  The  porter  asked  mc  whether  I 
would  have  patienee  till  play-time  was  over.  I 
answered,  "  Yes,"  and  lie  conducted  me  into  a 
parlour,  where  I  expected  soon  to  feel  ennui ;  but 
I  was  mistaken;  for  here  I  witnessed  a  scene 
which  will  never  escape  my  memory.  It  was  tiic 
hour  at  which  tlic  widowed  mothers  visit  their 
sons.  Tlie  parlour  or  hall  was  prepared  for  this 
purpose ;  round  it  were  placed  at  least  a  dozen 
small  green  tables,  with  chairs  arranged  so  as  to 
receive  a  number  of  small  groups.  The  mothers 
were  already  there  before  tlie  clock  struck  —  for 
maternal  love  ever  outstrips  time.  With  longing 
expectation  tlicir  looks  were  fixed  on  the  door. 
One  boy  after  the  other  was  called.  Each  of  them 
hastily  enters,  looks  round,  and  mother  and  son 
fly  into  each  other's  arms.  One  of  them  takes  her 
son,  a  stout  boy  at  least  twelve  years  old,  on  her 
lap,  and  fondles  him  like  an  infant  at  the  breast. 
Another  sits  down  at  a  table  with  her  darling,  to 
whom  she  has  brought  some  chestnuts,  which  he 
eats  with  a  keen  appetite,  while  she  weeps  in 
silence,  and  every  moment  secretly  dries  the  tears 
that  trickle  from  her  eyes.  A  third  joyfully  re- 
ceives her  cheerful  stripling,  who  has  scarcely 
leaned  a  moment  on  his  mother's  breast,  than  he 
begins  to  weep  bitterly.  Every  mother  had  brought 
something  in  handkerchiefs,  baskets,  or  napkins. 
Many  of  the  children  received  these  little  presents 
with  joy,  but  with  many  they  could  not  stop  the 
flood  of  grief  A  couple  of  boys,  who  probably 
were  completely  orphans,  sat  with  a  serious  look 
before  a  table,  listening  to  an  old  man,  perhaps  a 
friend  of  tlieir  deceased  parents,  who  talked  very 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  35 

kindly  to  them.  Their  eyes  were  constantly  stray- 
ing'  towards  the  favourites  caressed  by  their  mo- 
tliers,  and  towards  those  of  their  comrades  who 
had  received  presents.  Many  of  the  sisters  of  the 
pupils,  both  great  and  small,  had  likewise  come, 
but  1  did  not  observe  tliat  any  of  them  were 
affected.  Love  between  brothers  and  sisters  is  the 
work  of  custom,  not  of  nature. 

This  hour  passed  away  very  rapidly.  Nobody 
noticed  me ;  they  were  all  occupied  witli  their 
family  concerns.  I  had  free  scope  for  observation. 
At  last  the  hollov.^  drum  sounded  ;  one  more  em- 
brace, and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  parlour 
is  cleared.  The  apartment  is  plain,  and  witli  great 
propriety  decorated  with  the  busts  of  celebrated 
French  heroes,  between  which  hang  military  plans 
and  sketches,  drawn  by  the  pupils,  and  exhibited 
by  way  of  reward. 

KOTZEBUE. 


LIFE  OF  A  LOOKING-GLASS. 

It  being  very  much  the  custom,  as  I  am  in- 
formed, even  for  obscure  individuals  to  furnish 
some  account  of  themselves,  for  the  edification  of 
the  public,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  deemed  imperti- 
nent for  calling  your  attention  to  a  few  particulars 
of  my  own  history.  I  cannot,  indeed,  boast  of  any 
very  extraordinary  incidents ;  but  having,  during 
the  course  of  a  long  life,  had  much  leisure  and 
opportunity  for  observation,  and  being  naturally 
of  a  reflecting  cast,  I  thought  it  might  be  in  my 
power  to  offer  some  remarks  that  may  not  bo 
wholly  unprofitable  to  your  readers. 

My  earliest  recollection  is  that  of  a  carver  and 


36  vouNG  lady's 

gilder's  workshop,  where  I  remained  for  many 
months,  leaning  with  my  faee  to  the  wall ;  and, 
liaving  never  known  any  livelier  scene,  I  was  very 
well  contented  with  my  quiet  condition.  The  first 
ohject  that  I  remember  to  have  arrested  my  atten- 
tion,  was,  what  I  now  believe  must  have  been  a 
large  spider,  which,  after  a  vast  deal  of  scampering 
about,  began,  very  deliberately,  to  weave  a  curious 
web  all  over  ni}^  face.  This  aftbrded  me  great 
anuiseinent,  and,  not  then  knowing  what  far  love- 
lier objects  were  destined  to  my  gaze,  I  did  not 
resent  the  indignity. 

At  length,  when  little  dreaming  of  any  change 
of  fortune,  I  felt  myself  suddenly  removed  from 
my  station ;  and  immediately  afterwards  under- 
went a  curious  operation,  wliich  at  the  time  gave 
me  considerable  appreliensions  for  my  safety  ;  but 
these  were  succeeded  by  pleasure,  upon  finding 
myself  arrayed  in  a  broad  black  frame,  handsomely 
carved  and  gilt;  for  you  will  please  to  observe,  that 
tlic  period  of  which  I  am  now  speaking  was  up- 
wards of  fourscore  years  ago.  Tliis  process  being 
finished,  I  was  presently  placed  in  the  shop-win- 
dow, with  my  face  to  the  street,  which  was  one 
of  the  most  public  in  the  city.  Here  my  attention 
was  at  first  distracted  by  the  constant  succession 
of  objects  that  passed  before  me.  But  it  was  not 
long  before  I  began  to  remark  the  considerable 
degree  of  attention  I  myself  excited;  and  how 
much  I  was  distinguished,  in  this  respect,  from 
the  other  articles,  my  neighbours,  in  the  shop- 
window.  I  observed  that  passengers,  who  appeared 
to  be  posting  away  upon  urgent  business,  would 
often  just  turn  and  give  me  a  friendly  glance  as 
they  passed.  But  I  was  particularly  gratified  to 
observe,  that  wliile  the  old,  the  shabby,  and  the 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  37 

wretched,  seldom  took  any  notice  of  me,  tJie  young, 
the  gay,  and  the  handsome,  generally  paid  me  this 
compliment ;  and  tliat  these  good-looking  people 
always  seemed  best  ])leascd  with  me;  which  I 
attributed  to  their  superior  discernment.  I  well 
remember  one  young  lady,  who  used  to  pass  my 
master's  shop  regularly  every  morning  in  her  way 
to  school,  and  who  never  omitted  to  turn  her  head 
to  look  at  me  as  she  went  by ;  so  that,  at  last,  we 
became  well  acquainted  with  each  other.  I  must 
confess,  that,  at  this  period  of  my  life,  I  was  in 
great  danger  of  becoming  insufferably  vain,  from 
the  regards  that  were  then  paid  me ;  and,  perhaps, 
I  am  not  the  only  individual  who  has  formed  miti- 
taken  notions  of  the  attentions  he  receives  in  so- 
ciety. 

My  vanity,  however,  received  a  considerable 
check  from  one  circumstance ;  nearly  all  the  goods 
by  which  I  was  surrounded  in  tlic  shop-window 
(though,  many  of  them,  much  more  homely  in 
tlieir  structure,  and  humble  in  their  destinations) 
were  disposed  of  sooner  than  myself.  I  had  the 
mortification  of  seeing  one  after  another  bargained 
for  and  sent  away,  while  I  remained,  month  after 
month,  without  a  purchaser.  At  lust,  however,  a 
gentleman  and  lady  from  the  country  (who  haci 
been  standing  some  time  in  the  street,  inspecting, 
and,  as  I  perceived,  conversing  about  me)  walked 
into  the  shop ;  and,  after  some  altercation  with  my 
master,  agreed  to  purchase  me ;  upon  which  I  was 
packed  up,  and  sent  olT.  I  was  very  curious,  you 
may  suppose,  on  arriving  at  my  laew  rpiarters,  to 
sec  what  kind  of  life  I  was  likely  to  lead.  I  re- 
mained, however,  some  time  unmolested  in  my 
packing  case ;  and  very  Jlat  I  felt  there.  Upon 
being,  at  last  unpacked,  I  found  tnyself  in  the  hall 


38  YOUNG    lady's 

of  a  large  lone  house  in  the  country.  My  master 
and  mistress,  I  soon  learned,  were  new-married 
people,  just  setting  up  housekeeping ;  and  I  was 
intended  to  decorate  their  hest  parlour ;  to  which 
I  was  presently  conveyed ;  and,  after  some  little 
discussion  between  them  in  fixing  my  longitude 
and  latitude,  I  was  hung  up  opposite  the  fire-place, 
m  an  angle  of  ten  degrees  from  the  wall,  according 
to  the  fashion  of  those  times. 

And  there  I  hung,  year  after  year,  almost  ij\ 
perpetual  solitude.  My  master  and  mistress  were 
sober,  regular,  old-fashioned  people ;  they  saw  no 
comj)any  except  at  fair-time  and  Christmas  day ; 
on  which  occasions,  only,  they  occupied  tlie  best 
parlour.  My  countenance  used  to  brighten  up, 
when  I  saw  the  annual  fire  kindled  in  tliat  ample 
grate,  and  when  a  cheerful  circle  of  country -cou- 
sins assembled  round  it.  At  tliosc  times,  I  always 
got  a  little  notice  from  the  young  folks ;  but,  those 
festivities  over,  and  I  was  condemned  to  another 
half  year  of  complete  loneliness.  Plow  familiar  to 
my  recollection  at  this  hour  is  that  large,  old- 
fashioned  parlour  !  I  can  remember,  as  well  as  if 
I  had  seen  them  but  yesterday,  the  noble  flowers 
on  the  crimson  damask  chair-covers  and  window- 
curtains  ;  and  those  curiously  carved  tables  and 
chairs.  I  could  describe  every  one  of  the  stories 
on  the  Dutch  tiles  that  surrounded  the  grate ;  the 
rich  China  ornaments  on  the  wide  mantel-piece ; 
and  the  pattern  of  the  paper-hangings,  which 
consisted,  alternately,  of  a  parrot,  a  poppy,  and 
a  shepherdess, — a  parrot,  a  poppy,  and  a  shep- 
herdess. 

The  room  being  so  little  used,  the  window-shut 
ters  were  rarely  opened ;  but  there  were  three 
holes  cut  in  each,  in  the  shape  of  a  heart,  through 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  39 

which,  day  after  day,  and  year  after  year,  I  used 
to  watch  the  long-,  dim,  dusty  sunbeams  strcaminir 
across  the  dark  parlour.  1  should  mention,  Jiow- 
ever,  that  I  seldom  missed  a  short  visit  Irom  mv 
master  and  mistress  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when 
they  came  down  stairs  ready  dressed  for  church. 
I  can  remember  how  my  mistress  used  to  trot  in 
upon  her  hiirh-heeled  shoes,  unfold  a  leaf  of  one 
of  the  shutters ;  then  come  and  stand  strai<rlit  be- 
fore me;  then  turn  half  round  to  tiic  rii^ht  and  left; 
never  failing-  to  see  if  the  corner  of  her  well- 
starchcu  handkerchief  was  pinned  exactly  in  the 
middle.  I  think  I  can  see  her  now,  in  her  favour- 
ite dove-coloured  lustring,  (whicJi  she  wore  every 
Sunday  in  every  summer  for  seven  years  at  least,) 
and  her  long,  full  ruffles  and  worked  apron.  Then 
followed  my  good  mas-tcr,  wlio,  though  his  visit  was 
somewhat  shorter,  never  failed  to  come  and  settle 
his  Sunday  wig  before  me. 

Time  rolled  away ;  and  my  master  and  mistress, 
with  all  that  appertained  to  them,  insensibly  suf- 
fered from  its  influence.  When  I  first  knew  them, 
they  were  a  young,  blooming  couple  as  you  would 
wish  to  see ;  but  I  gradually  perceived  an  altera- 
tion. My  mistress  began  to  stoop  a  little ;  and  ray 
master  got  a  cough,  which  troubled  him  more  or 
less  to  the  end  of  his  days.  At  first,  and  for  many 
years,  my  mistress's  foot  upon  the  stairs  was  light 
and  nimble;  and  she  would  couie  in  as  blithe  and 
as  brisk  as  a  lark ;  but  at  last  it  was  a  slow,  heavy 
step ;  and  even  my  master's  began  to  totter.  And, 
in  tliese  respects,  every  tiling  else  kept  pace  with 
them:  the  crimson  damask,  that  I  remembered  so 
fresh  and  bright,  was  now  faded  and  .worn  ;  the 
dark  polished  mahogany  was,  hi  some  places, 
worm-eaten;    the    parrot's    gay    plumage    on    tlic 


40  YOUNG    lady's 

walls  grew  dull;  and  I  myself,  tliough  long  uncon- 
scious  of  it,  partook  of  tliu  universal  decay. 

Tlio  dissipated  Uiste  I  accjuired,  upon  my  first 
introduction  to  society,  iiad  long  since  subsided ; 
and  the  quiet,  sombre  life  I  led,  gave  me  a  grave, 
meditative  turn.  Tlie  cbange  which  I  witnessed 
in  all  things  around  me,  caused  me  to  reflect  mucli 
on  tlicir  vanity ;  and  when,  upon  the  occasions 
before  mentioned,  I  used  to  see  the  gay,  blooming 
laces  of  the  young  saluting  me  with  so  much  com- 
placency, I  would  fain  have  admonished  them  of 
the  alteration  they  must  soon  undergo,  and  have 
told  them  how  certainly  their  bloom  also  must 
fade  away  as  a  flower.  But,  alas  I  you  know,  sir, 
looking-glasses  can  only  reflect. 

After  1  had  remained  in  this  condition,  to  the 
best  of  my  knowledge,  about  forty-five  3'ears,  I 
suddenly  missed  my  old  master  ;  he  came  to  visit 
me  no  more  ;  and,  by  tlie  change  in  my  mistress's 
apparel,  I  guessed  what  had  happened.  Five  years 
more  passed  away ;  and  then  I  saw  no  more  of 
her !  In  a  short  time  after  this,  several  rude 
strangers  entered  my  room ;  the  long,  rusty  screw, 
which  had  held  me  up  so  many  years,  was  drawn 
out;  and  I,  together  with  all  the  goods  and  chattels 
in  the  house,  was  put  up  to  auction  in  tliat  very 
apartment  which  I  had  so  long  peaceably  occupied. 
I  felt  a  good  deal  hurt  at  the  very  contemptuous 
terms  in  wliich  1  was  spoken  of  by  some  of  the 
bidders;  for,  as  I  said,  I  was  not  aware  that  I  had 
become  as  old-fashioned  as  my  jjoor  old  master 
and  mistress.  At  last  I  was  knocked  down  for  a 
trifling  sum,  and  sent  away  to  a  very  different 
destination. 

Belorc  going  home  to  my  new  residence,  I  was 
sent  to  a  workman  to  be  refitted  in  a  new  gilt 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  41 

frame ;  which,  althougli  it  completely  modernized 
my  appearance,  I  nmst  conicss,  at  iirst  sat  very 
uneasily  upon  me.  And  now,  although  it  was  not 
till  my  old  age,  I,  lor  the  first  time,  became  ac- 
quainted with  my  natural  use,  capacity,  and  im- 
portance. My  new  station  was  no  other  than  the 
dressing-room  of  a  young  lady,  just  come  from 
school.  Before  I  was  well  fixed  in  the  destined 
spot,  slic  came  to  survey  me,  and  with  a  look  of 
such  complacency  and  good  will,  as  I  had  not 
seen  tor  many  a  day.  I  was  now  presently  initiated 
in  all  the  mysteries  of  the  toilet.  O,  what  an  end- 
less variety  of  laces,  jewels,  silks,  and  ribbons ; 
pins,  combs,  cushions,  and  curling-irons  ;  washes, 
essences,  powders,  and  patches,  were  daily  spread 
before  me  !  If  I  had  been  heretofore  almost  tired 
with  the  sight  of  my  good  old  mistress's  everlasting 
lustring,  I  really  felt  still  more  so  with  this  profu- 
sion of  ornament  and  preparation. 

I  was,  indeed,  favoured  with  my  fair  mistress's 
constant  attentions ;  they  were  so  unremitting  as 
perfectly  to  astonish  mc,  after  being  so  long  accus- 
tomed to  comparative  neglect.  Never  did  she  enter 
her  room,  on  the  most  hasty  errand,  without  vouch- 
safing me  a  kind  glance  ;  and  at  leisure  hours  I 
was  indulged  with  much  longer  visits.  Indeed,  to 
confess  the  truth,  I  was  sometimes  quite  surprised 
at  their  length.  But  I  don't  mean  to  tell  tales. 
During  tlie  hour  of  dressing,  when  I  was  more 
professionally  engaged  with  her,  there  was,  I  could 
perceive,  nothing  in  the  room — in  the  house — nay, 
I  believe,  nothing  in  the  world,  of  so  much  import- 
ance in  her  estimation  as  myself  But  I  have  fre 
quently  remarked,  with  concern,  the  diftercnt  as- 
pect with  which  slie  would  regard  me  at  those 
times,  and  when  she  returned  at  night  from  the 


Vi  YOUNG    LADY  S 

evening's  engagements.  However  late  it  was,  or 
however  fatigued  she  might  be,  still  I  was  sure  of 
a  greeting  as  soon  as  she  entered  ;  but,  instead  of 
the  bright,  blooming  face  I  had  seen  a  few  hours 
before,  it  was  generally  pale  and  haggard,  and  not 
unfrequcntly  bearing  a  strong  expression  of  disap- 
pointment or  chagrin. 

My  mistress  would  frequently  bring  a  crowd  of 
her  young  companions  into  her  apartment;  and  it 
was  amusing  to  see  how  they  would  each  in  turn 
come  to  pay  their  respects  to  me.  What  varied 
features  and  expressions  in  the  course  of  a  few 
minutes  I  had  tlms  an  opportunity  of  observing ! 
upon  which  I  used  to  make  my  own  quiet  reflec- 
tions. 

In  this  manner  I  continued  some  years  in  the 
service  of  my  mistress,  without  any  material  dter- 
ation  taking  place,  cither  in  her  or  in  me ;  but,  at 
length,  I  began  to  perceive  that  her  aspect  towards 
me  was  considerably  changed,  especially  when  I 
compared  it  with  my  first  recollections  of  her. 
Slie  now  appeared  to  regard  me  with  somewhat 
less  complacency ;  and  would  frequently  survey 
me  with  a  mingled  expression  of  displeasure  and 
suspicion,  as  though  some  change  had  taken  place 
in  me ;  though  I  am  sure  it  was  no  fault  of  mine ; 
indeed,  I  could  never  reflect  upon  myself  for  a 
moment ;  with  regard  to  my  conduct  towards  any 
of  my  owners,  I  have  ever  been  a  faithful  servant; 
nor  have  I  once,  in  the  course  of  my  whole  life, 
given  a  false  answer  to  any  one  I  have  had  to  do 
with.  I  am,  by  nature,  equally  averse  to  flattery 
and  detraction;  and  tiiis  I  may  say  for  myself, 
that  I  am  incapable  of  misrepresentation.  It  was 
with  mingled  sensations  of  contempt  and  compas- 
sion, that  I  witnessed  the  efforts  my  mistress  now 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  43 

made,  in  endeavouring  to  force  me  to  yield  the 
same  satisfaction  to  her  as  I  had  done  upon  our 
first  acquaintance.  Perhaps,  in  my  confidential 
situation,  it  would  be  scarcely  honourable  to  dis- 
close all  I  saw;  suffice  it,  then,  to  hint,  that,  to  my 
candid  temper,  it  was  painful  to  be  obliged  to  con- 
nive at  that  borrowed  bloom,  whicli,  alter  all,  was 
a  substitute  for  that  of  nature  ;  time,  too,  greatly 
baffled  even  these  expedients,  and  threatened  to 
render  them  wholly  ineffectual. 

Many  a  cross  and  reproachful  look  I  had  now 
to  endure;  which,  however,  I  took  patiently,  being 
always  remarkably  smooth  and  even  in  my  tem- 
per. Well  remembering  how  sadly  Time  had 
spoiled  the  face  of  my  poor  old  mistress,  I  dreaded 
the  consequences  if  my  present  owner  should  expe- 
rience, by  and  by,  as  rough  treatment  Irom  him ; 
and  I  believe  she  dreaded  it  too :  but  these  appre- 
hensions were  needless.  Time  is  not  seldom  ar- 
rested in  the  midst  of  his  occupations ;  and  it  was 
so  in  this  instance.  I  was  one  day  greatly  shocked, 
by  beholding  my  poor  mistress  stretched  out  in  a 
remote  part  of  the  room,  arrayed  in  very  different 
ornaments  from  those  I  had  been  used  to  see  her 
wear.  She  was  so  much  altered  that  I  scarcely 
knew  her ;  but  for  this  she  could  not  now  reproach 
me.  I  watched  her  thus  for  a  few  days,  as  she  lay 
before  me,  as  cold  and  motionless  as  myself;  but 
she  was  soon  conveyed  away,  and  I  saw  her  no 
more ! 

Ever  since,  I  have  continued  in  quiet  possession 
of  her  deserted  chamber  ;  which  is  only  occasion- 
ally visited  by  other  parts  of  the  family.  I  feel 
that  I  am  now  getting  old,  and  almost  beyond  fur- 
ther service.  I  have  an  ugly  crack,  occasioned  by 
tlie  careless  stroke  of  a  brooin,  all  across  mv  Icil 


44  YOUNG    lady's 

corner ;  my  coat  is  vcrj^  niucli  worn  in  several 
places ;  even  my  new  frame  is  now  tarnislicd  and 
old-fashioned;  so  that  I  cannot  expect  any  new  em- 
ployment. 

Having  now,  therefore,  nothing  to  reflect  on  but 
the  past  scenes  of  my  lite,  I  have  amused  myself 
with  giving  you  this  account  of  them.  I  said  I 
had  made  physiognomy  my  study,  and  that  I  had 
acquired  some  skill  in  this  interesting  science. 
The  result  of  my  observation  will  at  least  be 
deemed  impartial,  when  I  say,  that  I  am  generally 
least  pleased  with  the  cliaracter  of  those  faces, 
which  appear  the  most  so  with  mine.  And  I  have 
seen  occasion  so  far  to  alter  the  opinions  of  my  in- 
experienced youth,  that  for  those  who  pass  the  least 
time  with  me,  and  treat  me  with  little  considera- 
tion, I  conceive  the  highest  esteem ;  and  their  as- 
pect generally  produces  the  most  pleasing  reflec- 
tions. 

Jane  Taylor. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  SALINE  RIVER. 

Many  years  since,  long  before  the  whites  had 
extended  their  march  beyond  the  banks  of  the  Mis- 
f^issippi  river,  a  tribe  of  Indians  resided  upon  the 
Platte,  near  its  junction  with  the  Saline.  Among 
these  was  one,  the  chief  warrior  of  the  nation, 
celebrated  througliout  all  the  neighbouring  coun- 
try, for  his  fierce  and  unsparing  disposition.  Not 
a  hostile  village  within  several  hundred  miles,  but 
wailed  for  those  who  had  fallen  beneath  his  arm ; 
not  a  brook,  but  had  run  red  with  the  blood  of  his 
victims.  He  was  for  ever  engaged  in  plotting  de- 
struction to  his  enemies.'    He  led  his  warriors  from 


BOOK   OF    PROSK.  45 

one  village  to  another,  carrying  death  to  the  in- 
habitants, and  desolation  to  their  homes.  He  was 
a  terror  to  old  and  young. 

Often,  alone  and  unattended,  would  he  steal  off, 
to  bathe  his  hands  in  blood,  and  add  new  vietims 
to  tlie  countless  number  of  tliose  whom  he  had 
already  slain.  But  fearful  as  he  was  to  the  hostile 
tribes,  he  was  equally  dreaded  by  his  own  people. 
They  gloried  in  him  as  their  leader,  but  shrank 
from  all  fellowship  with  him.  His  lodge  was  de- 
sertcd,  and  even  in  the  midst  of  his  own  nation  he 
was  alone.  Yet  there  was  one  being  that  clung  to 
him,  and  loved  him,  in  defiance  of  the  sternness 
of  his  rugged  nature.  It  was  the  daughter  of  the 
chief  of  the  village  ;  a  ]»eautiful  girl,  and  gracefiil 
as  one  of  the  fawns  of  her  own  prairie. 

Though  she  had  many  admirers,  yet  \\hcn  the 
warrior  declared  his  intention  of  asking  her  of  lier 
father,  none  dared  come  in  competition  with  so 
formidable  a  rival.  She  became  his  wife,  and  he 
loved  her  with  all  the  fierce  energy  of  his  nature. 
It  was  a  new  feeling  to  him.  It  stole,  like  a  sun- 
beam, over  the  dark  passions  of  liis  heart.  His 
feelings  gushed  forth,  to  meet  the  warm  affectiou 
of  the  only  being  that  had  ever  loved  him.  Her 
sway  over  him  was  unbounded.  He  was  a  tiger 
tamed.  But  this  did  not  last  long.  Slie  died  ;  he 
buried  her ;  he  uttered  no  wail,  lie  shed  no  tear. 
He  returned  to  his  lonely  lodge,  and  forbade  all 
entrance.  No  sound  of  grief  was  heard  from  it — 
all  was  silent  as  the  tomb.  The  morning  came, 
and  with  its  earliest  dawn  he  left  the  lodge.  His 
body  was  covered  with  war-paint,  and  he  was  fully 
armed  as  if  for  some  expedition.  His  eye  was  the 
same,  there  was  the  same  sullen  fire  that  had  ever 
shot  from    its   deep  su))k  socket.     There  was  no 


46  YOUNG  lady's 

wavering  of  a  single  feature ;  there  was  not  tlie 
shrinking  of  a  single  muscle.  He  took  no  notice 
of  those  around  him  ;  but  walked  gloomily  to  the 
spot  where  his  wife  was  biu-icd.  He  paused  for  a 
moment  over  the  grave — plucked  a  wild  flower 
from  among  tlie  grass,  and  cast  it  upon  the  up- 
turned  sod.  Then  turning  on  his  heel,  he  strode 
across  the  prairie. 

Atler  tlie  lapse  of  a  month  he  returned  to  his 
village,  laden  with  the  scalps  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  which  he  hung  in  the  smoke  of  his  lodge. 
He  tarried  but  a  day  among  the  tribe,  and  again 
set  off,  lonely  as  ever.  A  week  elapsed,  and  he  re- 
turned, bringing  with  him  a  large  lump  of  white 
salt.  In  a  lew  words  he  told  his  tale.  He  had 
travelled  many  miles  over  the  prairie.  The  sun 
had  set  in  the  west,  and  the  moon  was  just  rising 
above  the  verge  of  the  horizon.  The  Indian  was 
weary,  and  threw  himself  on  the  grass.  He  had 
not  slept  long,  when  he  was  awakened  by  the  low 
wailing  of  a  teinale.  He  started  up,  and  at  a  little 
distance,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  beheld  an  old, 
decrepit  hag,  brandishing  a  tomahawk  over  the 
head  of  a  young  female,  who  was  kneeling,  im- 
ploring mercy. 

The  warrior  wondered  how  two  females  could 
be  at  this  sjx)t,  alone,  and  at  that  hour  of  the  night ; 
for  there  was  no  village  within  forty  miles  of  the 
place.  There  could  be  no  hunting  party  near,  or 
he  would  have  discovered  it.  He  approached  them  ; 
but  they  seemed  unconscious  of  his  presence.  The 
young  female  finding  her  prayers  unheeded,  sprang 
up,  and  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  get  possession 
of  the  tomahawk.  A  furious  struggle  ensued,  but 
tlie  old  woman  was  victorious.  Twisting  one  hand 
in  the  long  black  hair  of  her  victim,  she  raised  the 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  47 

weapon  in  the  other,  and  prepared  to  strike.  The 
face  of  the  young  female  was  turned  to  the  light, 
and  the  warrior  beheld  with  horror,  the  features  of 
his  deceased  wife.  In  an  instant  he  sprang  for- 
ward, and  his  tomahawk  was  buried  in  the  skull 
of  the  old  squaw.  But  ere  he  had  time  to  clasp 
the  form  of  his  wife,  the  ground  opened,  both  sank 
Irorn  his  sight,  and  on  the  spot  appeared  a  rock  of 
white  salt.  He  had  broken  a  piece  from  it,  and 
brought  it  to  his  tribe. 

This  tradition  is  still  current,  among  the  differ- 
ent tribes  of  Indians  frequenting  that  portion  of 
the  country.  They  also  imagine,  that  the  rock  is 
still  under  custody  of  the  old  squaw,  and  that  the 
only  way  to  obtain  a  portion  of  it,  is  to  attack  her 
For  this  reason,  before  attempting  to  collect  salt, 
they  beat  the  ground  with  clubs  and  tomahawks, 
imd  each  blow  is  considered  as  inflicted  upon  the 
person  of  the  hag.  The  ceremony  is  continued, 
until  they  imagine  she  has  been  sufficiently  bela- 
boured, to  resigji  her  treasure  without  opposition. 
This  superstition,  tliough  privately  ridiculed  by  the 
chiefs  of  the  different  tribes,  is  still  practised  bj 
them,  and  most  devoutly  credited  by  the  rabble. 

J.  T.  Irving. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  BETTY  BROOM. 

Mr.  Idler, — I  never  thought  I  should  write  any 
thing  to  be  printed ;  but  having  lately  seen  your 
first  essay,  which  was  sent  down  into  the  kitchen 
with  a  great  bundle  of  gazettes  and  useless  papers, 
I  find  that  you  are  willing  to  admit  any  correspon. 
dent,  and  therefore  hope  you  will  not  reject  mc 
If  you  publish  my  letter,  it  may  encourage  othera 


48  YOUNG  lady's 

in  the  same  condition  with  myself  to  tell  their  sto- 
ries, which  may  be  perhaps  as  useful  as  those  of 
great  ladies. 

I  am  a  poor  girl.  I  was  l)rcd  in  tlie  country  at 
a  charity-school  maintained  by  the  contributions  of 
wealthy  neighbours.  The  ladies,  or  patronesses, 
visited  us  from  time  to  time,  examined  how  we 
were  taught,  and  saw  that  our  clothes  were  clean. 
Wc  lived  happily  enough,  and  were  instructed  to 
be  thankful  to  those  at  whose  cost  we  were  educa- 
ted. I  was  always  the  favourite  of  my  mistress : 
she  used  to  call  me  to  read,  and  sliow  my  copy- 
book to  all  strangers,  who  never  dismissed  me 
without  commendation,  and  very  seldom  without  a 
shilling. 

At  last,  the  chief  of  our  subscribers,  having 
passed  a  winter  in  London,  came  down  full  of  an 
opinion,  new  and  strange  to  the  whole  country : — 
she  held  it  little  less  than  criminal  to  teach  poor  girls 
to  read  and  write.  "  They  who  are  born  to  pover- 
ty," said  she,  "  are  born  to  ignorance,  and  will  work 
the  harder  the  less  they  know."  Slie  told  her 
friends  that  London  was  in  confusion  by  the  inso- 
lence of  servants ;  that  scarcely  a  wench  was  »o  be 
got  for  all  work,  since  education  had  made  such 
numbers  of  fine  ladies ;  that  nobody  would  now 
accept  a  lower  title  than  that  of  a  waiting-maid,  or 
something  that  might  quality  her  to  wear  laced 
shoes  and  long  ruflles,  and  to  sit  and  work  in  the 
parlour  window  :  but  she  was  resolved  for  her  part, 
to  spoil  no  more  girls ;  those  who  were  to  live  by 
their  hands  should  neither  read  nor  write  out  of 
her  pocket ;  the  world  was  bad  enough  already, 
und  she  would  have  no  part  in  making  it  worse. 

She  was  for  a  short  lime  warmly  opposed  ;  but 
slie  persevered  in  her  notions,  and  withdrew  her 


DOOK    OF    PROSK.  43 

subscription.  Few  listen  without  a  desire  of  con- 
viction to  those  who  advise  them  to  spare  their 
money :  her  example  and  her  arguments  gained 
ij-round  daily ;  and  in  less  than  a  year  the  wliole 
parish  was  convinced  that  the  nation  would  be 
ruined  if  the  children  of  the  poor  were  taught  to 
read  and  write. 

Our  school  was  now  dissolved ;  my  mistress 
kissed  me  when  we  parted,  and  told  me  that,  being 
old  and  helpless,  she  could  not  assist  me,  advised 
me  to  seek  a  service,  and  charged  me  not  to  forget 
wiiat  I  had  learned. 

My  reputation  for  scholarship,  which  had  hith- 
erto recommended  me  to  favour,  was,  by  the  adhe- 
rents to  the  new  opinion,  considered  as  a  crime ; 
and  when  I  offered  myself  to  any  mistress,  I  had 
no  other  answer  than,  "  Sure,  child,  you  would  not 
work  ?  Hard  work  is  not  fit  for  a  penwoman  ;  a 
scrubbing-brush  would  spoil  your  hand,  child." 

I  could  not  live  at  home ;  and,  while  I  was  con- 
sidering to  what  I  should  betake  me,  one  of  the 
girls  who  had  gone  from  our  school  to  London, 
came  down  in  a  silk  gown,  and  told  lier  acquaint- 
ance how  well  she  lived,  what  fine  tilings  she  saw. 
and  what  great  wages  she  received.  I  resolved  to 
try  my  fortune,  and  took  my  passage  in  the  next 
week's  wagon  to  London.  I  had  no  snare  laid 
for  me  at  my  arrival,  but  came  safe  to  a  sister  of 
my  mistress,  who  undertook  to  get  me  a  place. 
She  knew  only  the  families  of  mean  tradesmen  ; 
and  I,  having  no  high  opinion  of  my  own  qualifi- 
cations, was  willing  to  accept  the  first  offer. 

My  first  mistress  was  wile  of  a  working  watch- 
maker, who  earned  more  than  was  sufficient  to 
keep  his  family  in  decency  and  plenty  ;  but  it  was 
their  constant  practice  to  hire  a  chaise  on  Sundav, 
4 


o\J  YOUNG    LADY  8 

and  spend  half  the  wages  of  llic  week  on  Rich- 
mond  liill;  of  Monday,  he  commonly  lay  half  in 
bed,  and  spent  the  other  half  in  merriment ;  Tues- 
day and  Wednesday  consumed  the  rest  of  his  mo- 
ney ;  and  three  days  every  week  were  passed  in 
extremity  of  want  by  us  who  were  left  at  home, 
while  my  master  lived  on  tfust  at  an  alehouse. 
You  may  be  sure  that,  of  the  sufferers,  the  maid 
suffered  most ;  and  I  left  them,  after  three  months, 
rather  than  be  starved. 

I  was  then  maid  to  a  hatter's  wife.  There  was 
no  want  to  be  dreaded,  for  they  lived  in  perpetual 
luxury.  My  mistress  was  a  diligent  woman,  and 
rose  early  in  the  morning  to  set  the  journeymen 
to  work ;  my  master  was  a  man  much  beloved  by 
his  neighbours,  and  sat  at  one  club  or  other  every 
night.  I  was  obliged  to  wait  on  my  master  at 
night,  and  on  my  mistress  in  the  morning.  He 
seldom  came  home  before  two,  and  she  rose  at  five. 
I  could  no  more  live  without  sleep  than  without 
food,  and  therefore  entreated  them  to  look  out  for 
another  servant. 

My  next  removal  was  to  a  linendraper's,  who  had 
six  children.  My  mistress,  when  I  first  entered 
the  house,  informed  me  that  I  must  never  contra- 
dict the  children,  nor  suffer  them  to  cry.  I  had 
no  desire  to  offend,  and  readily  promised  to  do  my 
best ;  but  wlicn  I  gave  them  their  breakfast,  I 
could  not  help  all  first;  when  I  was  playing  with 
one  in  my  lap,  I  was  forced  to  keep  the  rest  in  ex- 
pectation ;  that  which  was  not  gratified  always  re- 
sented the  injury  with  a  loud  outcry,  which  put 
my  mistress  in  a  fury  at  mc,  and  procured  sugar- 
plums to  the  child.  I  could  not  keep  six  children 
ijuict  who  were  bribed  to  be  clamorous ;  and  was 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  51 

therefore  dismissed,  as  a  girl  honest,  but  not  good- 
natured. 

I  thou  hved  with  a  couple  that  kept  a  petty  sliop 
of  remnants  and  cheap  linen.  I  was  qualified  to 
make  a  bill,  or  keep  a  book ;  and  being  therefore 
often  called,  at  a  busy  time,  to  serve  the  customers, 
expected  that  I  should  now  be  happy,  in  proportion 
as  I  was  useful :  but  my  mistress  appropriated 
every  day  part  of  the  profit  to  some  private  use, 
and,  as  she  grew  bolder  in  her  theft,  at  last  deduct- 
ed such  sums,  that  my  master  began  to  wonder 
how  he  sold  so  much  and  gained  so  little.  Slip 
pretended  to  assist  his  inquiries,  and  began,  very 
gravely,  to  hope  that  Betty  was  honest,  and  yet 
those  sharp  girls  were  apt  to  be  light-fingered. 
You  will  believe  that  I  did  not  stay  there  much 
longer. 

Having  left  the  last  place  in  haste,  to  avoid  the 
charge  or  the  suspicion  of  thcrl,  I  had  not  secured 
anothei:,  service,  and  was  forced  to  take  a  lodging 
in  a  back  street.  I  had  now  got  good  clothes. 
The  woman  who  lived  in  the  garret  opposite  to 
mine  was  very  officious,  and  offered  to  take  care 
of  my  room  and  clean  it,  while  I  went  round  tc 
my  acquaintance  to  inquire  for  a  mistress.  I  knew 
not  why  she  was  so  kind,  nor  how  I  could  recom- 
pense her  ;  but  in  a  few  days  I  missed  some  of 
my  linen,  went  to  another  lodging,  and  resolved 
not  to  have  another  friend  in  the  next  garret. 

In  six  weeks  I  became  under  maid  at  the  house 
of  a  mercer  in  Cornhill,  whose  son  was  his  appren- 
tice. The  young  gentleman  used  to  sit  late  at  the 
tavern,  without  the  knowledge  of  his  father,  and  I 
was  ordered  by  my  mistress  to  let  him  in  silently 
to  his  bed  under  the  counter,  and  to  be  very  care- 
ful  to  take  away  his  candle.     The  hours  which  I 


52  YOUNG    LADV'S 

was  obliged  to  watch,  whilst  the  rest  of  the  family 
was  in  bed,  I  considered  as  supernumerary :  and, 
having  no  business  assijjned  for  tliern,  thought 
myself  at  liberty  to  spend  them  my  own  way.  I 
kept  myself  awake  with  a  book ;  and,  for  some 
lime,  liked  my  state  the  better  for  this  opportunity 
of  reading.  At  last,  the  upper  maid  found  my 
book,  and  showed  it  to  my  mistress,  who  told  me, 
that  wenches  like  me  might  spend  their  time 
better ;  that  she  never  knew  any  of  the  readers 
tlaat  had  good  designs  in  their  heads ;  that  she 
could  always  find  something  else  to  do  witli  her 
time  than  to  puzzle  over  books,  and  did  not  like 
that  such  a  fine  lady  should  sit  up  for  her  young 
master. 

This  was  the  first  time  tliat  I  found  it  thought 
criminal  or  dangerous  to  know  how  to  read.  I 
was  dismissed  decently,  lest  I  should  tell  tales,  and 
had  a  small  gratuity  above  my  wages. 

I  then  lived  with  a  gentlewoman  of  a  small  fortune. 
This  was  the  only  happy  part  of  my  life.  My  mis- 
tress, for  whom  public  diversions  were  too  expen- 
sive, spent  her  time  with  books,  and  was  pleased 
to  find  a  maid  who  could  partake  her  amusements. 
I  rose  early  in  the  morning,  that  I  might  have 
time  in  the  afternoon  to  read  or  listen,  and  was 
suffered  to  tell  my  opinion,  or  express  my  delight. 
Thus  fifteen  months  stole  away,  in  which  I  did 
not  repine  that  I  was  born  to  servitude  ;  but  a 
burning  fever  seized  my  mistress,  of  whom  I  shall 
say  no  more,  tlian  that  her  servant  wxpt  upon  her 
grave. 

I  had  lived  in  a  kind  of  luxury  which  made  me 
very  unfit  for  another  place,  and  was  rather  too 
delicate  for  the  conversation  of  a  kitchen ;  so  that 
when  I  was  hired  in  tlic  family  of  an  East  India 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  53 

director,  my  behaviour  was  so  different,  as  they 
said,  from  that  of  a  common  servant,  that  they 
concluded  me  a  gentlevi^oman  in  disguise,  and 
turned  me  out  in  three  weeks,  on  suspicion  of 
some  design  which  they  could  not  comprehend. 

I  then  lied  for  refuge  to  the  other  end  of  tlic 
town,  where  I  hoped  to  find  no  obstruction  from 
my  new  accomplishments,  and  was  liired  under 
tlie  housekeeper  in  a  splendid  family.  Here  I 
was  too  wise  for  the  maids,  and  too  nice  for  the 
footman  :  yet  I  might  have  lived  on  without  much 
uneasiness,  had  not  my  mistress  the  housekeeper, 
who  used  to  employ  me  in  buying  necessaries  for 
tlie  family,  found  a  bill  which  I  had  made  of  one 
day's  expense.  I  suppose  it  did  not  quite  agree 
with  her  own  book,  for  she  fiercely  declared  her 
resolution,  that  there  should  be  no  pen  and  ink  in 
that  kitchen  but  her  own. 

She  had  the  justice,  or  the  prudence,  not  to  in- 
jure my  reputation,  and  I  was  easily  admitted  into 
another  house  in  the  neighbourhood,  where  my 
business  was  to  sweep  the  rooms  and  make  the 
beds.  Here  I  was  for  some  time  the  favourite  of 
Mrs.  Simper,  my  lady's  woman,  who  could  not 
bear  the  vulgar  girls,  and  was  happy  in  the  atten- 
dance of  a  young  woman  of  some  education.  Mrs. 
Simper  loved  a  novel,  though  she  could  not  read 
hard  words,  and  therefore  when  her  lady  was 
abroad,  we  always  laid  hold  on  her  books.  At 
last,  my  abilities  became  so  nmch  celebrated,  that 
tlie  house-steward  used  to  employ  me  in  keeping 
his  accounts.  Mrs.  Simper  then  found  out,  that 
my  laziness  was  grown  to  such  a  height  that  no- 
body could  endure  it,  and  told  my  lady,  that  there 
had  never  been  a  room  well  swept  since  Betty 
Broom  came  into  the  house. 


54  YOUNG    lady's 

I  was  then  hired  by  a  consumptive  lady,  who 
wanted  a  maid  that  could  rend  and  write.  I  at- 
tended her  four  years,  and  though  she  was  never 
pleased,  yet  when  I  declared  my  resolution  to  leave 
iier,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  told  me  I  must  bear 
tlie  peevishness  of  a  sick  bed,  and  I  sliould  find 
myself  remembered  in  her  will.  I  complied,  and 
a  codicil  was  added  in  my  favour  ;  but  in  less  than 
a  week,  when  I  set  her  gruel  before  her,  I  laid  the 
spoon  on  the  left  side,  and  she  threw  her  will  into 
the  fire.  In  two  days  she  made  another,  which 
she  burnt  in  the  same  manner,  because  she  could 
not  cat  her  chicken.  A  third  was  made,  and  de- 
stroyed, because  she  heard  a  mouse  within  the 
wainscot,  and  was  sure  I  should  suffer  her  to  be 
carried  away  alive.  After  this  I  was  for  some 
time  out  of  favour,  but  as  her  illness  grew  upon 
her,  resentment  and  sullenness  gave  way  to  kinder 
sentiments.  She  died,  and  left  me  five  hundred 
pounds ;  with  this  fortune  I  am  going  to  settle  in 
my  native  parish,  where  I  resolve  to  spend  some 
hours  every  day  in  teaching  poor  girls  to  read  and 
write.  I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant,  Betty  Broom. 

Johnson. 


HEIDELBERG. 

Were  some  unhappy  man  to  ask  mc  where  he 
ought  to  live,  in  order,  now  and  then,  to  steal  an 
hour  from  lurking  sorrow,  I  should  say  at  Heidel- 
berg.  And  were  some  happy  being  desirous  to 
learn  which  place  he  ought  to  choose,  in  order  to 
crown  every  joy  of  life  with  fresh  garlands,  I 
should  again  name  Heidelberg.  A  romantic  site ; 
mild  air ;  honest  people  ;  freedom  from  restraint ; 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  55 

commodious  dwellings;  cheapness;  what  advan- 
tages !  And  yet  these  are  far  li-om  being  all :  for 
Heidelberg  atibrds  a  still  greater,  that  of  being  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  so  many  fine,  pleasant,  and 
hospitable  towns. 

Should  the  wretched  desire  to  brood  alone  over 
his  sorrows,  and  that  is  what  he  always  wishes  to 
do  at  first,  let  him  walk  on  the  charming  banks  of 
the  Necker,  or  on  tlie  luxuriant  mountains,  or 
among  the  majestic  ruins  of  the  castle,  or  let  liim 
make  little  excursions  to  Weinheim,  Eppcnheim, 
&c.  But  if  once  his  grief  has  broken  through  the 
pale  of  despair,  if  he  no  longer  shuns  mankind, 
and  their  bustling  scenes,  he  may  generally  find 
amusement  in  the  playhouses  of  Manheim,  Stutt- 
gard,  and  Franklbrt  on  the  Mayn.  He  will  meet 
with  diversion  in  Darmstadt,  Heilbroun,  Bruchsal, 
Hanau,  Spire,  Worms,  Opjienheim,  Ofienbach ;  in 
short,  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  and  in  every  direc- 
tion. 

The  ruins  of  the  castle  are  unique ;  the  views 
around  it  awake  the  thoughts  of  a  better  life.  The 
antique  subterraneous  walks  afi;brd  employment  to 
a  lively  imagination.  They  are  said  to  lead  to  the 
town ;  but,  being  dangerous,  it  has  been  wisely 
ordered  that  they  should  be  filled  up.  A  few  years 
ago  an  emigrant  was  swallowed  up  by  an  abyss, 
having,  witli  incautious  precipitation,  preceded  his 
guide.  Luckily  for  him,  some  boys  had  a  little 
while  before  followed  him  begging,  and  having 
marked  the  spot  where  he  disappeared,  he  was  at 
length  extricated.  He  related  that  he  had  walked 
forward  a  eoijsiderabie  way  in  the  vault,  when  he 
heard  at  a  distance  various  conlused  nois.es,  which 
echoed  down  upon  him  from  the  town.  At  last  he 
could  distinguish  the  cries  of  those  who  were  in 


Jb  YOUNG    LADY  3 

search  of  him,  and  he  turned  baclv.  A  rope-dancer 
likewise,  erecting-  some  poles  in  the  market-place, 
on  which  to  fix  his  slack  rope,  was  precipitated 
into  the  same  vault,  where  he  Ibund  some  old  rusty 
arms. 

The  famous  tun  of  Heidelbero^  is  a  pitiful  cu- 
riosity, which  does  not  even  interest  by  its  anti- 
(juity  ;  for  the  old  tun  is  g-one  to  pieces,  and  the 
elector,  Charles  Theodore,  by  building-  a  new  one, 
lias  not  gained  immortality.  Yet  I  would  advise 
every  traveller  to  go  into  tlie  cellar,  for  he  will  find 
something  which  he  does  not  expect,  and  which 
will  please  him  just  as  it  pleased  me  :  it  is  Clemens. 
— I  mean  the  wooden  statue  of  an  old  fool  of  the 
electoral  court,  with  a  real  fool's  physiognomy.  In 
this  individual  we  recognise  the  genus  at  the  first 
look.  It  is  not  so  much  wit  (which  is  never  par- 
doned any  truth)  as  jollity  (of  which  nothing  is 
taken  amiss)  that  lives  and  speaks  in,  and  out  of, 
this  face.  In  the  mouth  of  this  lusty,  well-fed 
personage,  every  thing  is  turned  into  joke  ;  into 
home-felt  joke  ;  but  never  into  bitter  sarcasm.  In- 
deed  1  should  like  to  have  such  a  fool  about  me, 
and  I  must  find  fault  with  all  the  crowned  heads 
for  having  allowed  such  an  useful  custom  to  be- 
:;ome  obsolete. 

1'lie  statue  of  honest  Clemens  is  going  fast  to 
decay,  and  surely  that  is  a  pity.  His  physiog-no- 
my  alone  gave  me  a  lucid  moment  of  delight,  and 
I  had  much  rather  recall  him  to  life  than  the  ce- 
lebrated Lady  Moratta,  whose  monument  you  find 
at  St.  Peter's  church  in  Heidelberg.  She  died  in 
the  twenty-ninth  year  of  her  age,  and  notwith- 
standing  her  youth,  understood  several  learned 
languages.  Her  husband,  too,  one  Grundler,  is 
mentioned  in  the  inscription  by  her  side.     You 


BOOK  OF  PROSE.  57 

know  I  am  no  admirer  of  those  ladies  who  are  «o 
learned,  tiiat  they  make  of  a  Imsband  a  mere  do- 
mestic animal. 

If  you,  my  dear  girl,  ever  come  to  Heidelberg, 
you  will,  perhaps,  inquire  for  the  spring  called 
Wolfsbrunnen,  which  was  so  famous,  and  so  pleas- 
ant, and  at  which  our  good  king  is  said  to  have 
once  taken  his  breakfast.  Yes,  in  those  times, 
liuie  trees,  three  hundred  years  old,  formed  the 
dome  over  the  fountain,  and  their  branches  had 
grown  so  closely  together,  that  they  could  be  used 
like  a  floor  to  v^alk  on,  to  place  tables  and  chairs 
on  t!ic  top,  and  make  merry  in  the  verdant  twi- 
light. 

Tlie  female  visitors  (so  the  neighbours  relate) 
sat  on  the  top  of  the  trees,  engaged  in  reading  or 
knitting  stockings ;  or  even  had  a  harpsichord 
placed  by  them ;  while  the  gentlemen  played  on 
tlie  flute,  among  the  umbrageous  branches  ;  in  the 
cool  grotto  below,  tea  or  coflfec  was  made ;  the 
source  murmured  secretly  and  invisibly  behind 
the  green  tapestry,  exhaling  perfume.  But  all  this 
you  must  not  now  ask  for :  you  will  find  nothing 
but  a  square  basin  surrounded  with  trunks  of  trees 
All  those  beautiful  lime  trees  were  felled  a  few 
weeks  ago.  "  Who  gave  tlicse  orders  ?"  exclaimed 
I  with  indignation.  "  The  electoral  treasury,"  was 
the  reply.  Those  thick  trees  yield  fine  wood,  and 
the  fat  trouts  in  the  stream  could  not  bear  the  ex- 
rx;ssivc  coolness  of  the  shade.  I  really  wish  that 
every  counsellor  of  the  treasury  who  consented  to 
tliis  robbery  of  beauteous  nature,  may  be  ol)liged 
to  wander  about,  twice  a  year,  in  the  parching 
sommer  heat  and  in  the  glow  of  the  midday  sun, 
panting  in  vain  for  such  a  shady  spot. 


58  YOUNG    lady's 

Oh,  this  is  not  the  only  sin  which  the  spirit  of* 
electoral  economy,  which  was  never  desijrncd  to 
hover  o\ct  such  a  paradise,  has  committed,  or  at 
least  wished  to  commit.  It  was  intended  to  ha\e 
demolished  the  magnificent  ruins  of  the  Hall  of 
the  Knig-hts,  in  order  to  sell  the  stones.  The  fairy 
g-ardens  ofSchwetzingen  were  to  have  been  let  out 
for  potatoe  fields,  as  the  expense  of  keeping  tJiem 
was  deemed  too  great.  This  I  call  making  a  poet 
an  accountant;  but  both  these  measures  have  been 
effectually  protested  against.  Witli  the  Hall  of 
the  Knights,  the  ancient  castle  of  Heidelberg  would 
be  deprived  of  its  finest  ornament ;  and  if  Sehwetz- 
ingen  causes  a  great  expense,  it  on  the  otlier  hand 
attracts  a  nmltitude  of  wealthy  strangers.  O  I  may 
every  hand  be  blasted  wliich  is  eager  to  destroy 
whatever  has  given  pleasure  to  mankind  for  cen- 
turies I 

Before  we  take  our  final  leave  of  Heidelberg,  I 
must  conduct  you  to  the  beautiful  bridge,  built  on 
the  site  of  that  which  was  swept  away  by  a  flood 
m  1783  or  '84.  At  that  time,  St.  John,  to  the  great 
joy  of  all  pious  believers,  remained  standing  alone 
upon  a  solitary  pillar.  Notwithstanding  tliis  un- 
deniable  miracle,  the  good  saint  was  obliged,  after 
the  new  bridge  was  built,  to  give  way  to  the  blind 
heathen  goddess  Minerva. 

Facing  her,  stands  the  statue  of  the  elector, 
Charles  Theodore.  In  an  engagement  whick  took 
place  last  war  on  this  bridge,  the  goddess  was 
terribly  maltreated  with  grape-shot,  and  is  now 
perfectly  ciualified  to  be  tlic  emblem  of  the  Ger- 
manic empire. 

KOTZEBUE. 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  59 


TASSOS  "  JERUSALEM  DELIVERED." 

Since  you  left  us,  I  liavc  been  reading  Tasso's 
"  Jerusalem,"  in  the  translation  lately  published  by 
Hoole.  I  was  not  a  little  anxious  to  peruse  a  poem 
which  is  so  famous  over  all  Europe,  and  has  so 
often  been  mentioned  as  a  rival  to  the  "  Iliad," 
"  /Eneid,"  and  "  Paradise  Lost."  It  is  certainly  a 
noble  work ;  and  thoug-h  it  seems  to  rae  to  be  interior 
to  the  tin-ce  poems  just  mentioned,  yet  I  cannot 
help  tliinking  it  in  the  rank  next  to  these.  As  for 
tlie  other  modern  attempts,  as  the  "  Epopee,"  the 
*'  Henriade"  of  Voltaire,  the  "  Epigoniad"  of  Wil- 
kic,  tlio  "  Leonidas"  of  Glover,  not  to  mention  tlie 
"  Arthur"  of  Ulackmore,  they  are  not  to  be  com- 
pared with  it.  Tasso  possesses  an  exuberant  and 
sublime  imagination ;  though  in  exuberance  it 
seems,  in  my  opinion,  inferior  to  our  Spenser,  and 
in  sublimity  inferior  to  Milton.  Were  I  to  com- 
pare Milton's  genius  with  Tasso's,  I  would  say, 
that  the  sublime  of  tlie  latter  is  flashy  and  fluctuat- 
ing, while  that  of  tiie  former  difluses  a  uniform, 
steady,  and  vigorous  blaze :  Milton  is  more  ma- 
jestic, Tasso  more  dazzling.  Dry  den,  it  seems, 
was  of  opinion,  that  the  "Jerusalem  Delivered" 
was  the  only  poem  of  modern  times  that  deserved 
tlie  name  of  epic  :  but  it  is  certain  that  criticism 
was  not  this  writer's  talent;  and  I  think  it  is 
evident,  from  some  passages  of  his  works,  that  he 
either  did  not,  or  would  not,  understand  the  "  Pa- 
radise Lost."  Tasso  borrows  his  plot  and  prin- 
cipal characters  from  Homer,  but  his  manner 
resembles  Virgil's.  He  is  certainly  much  obliged 
to  Virgil,  and  scruples  not  to  imitate  nor  to  trans- 
late him  on  many  occasions.     In  the  pathetic  he 


GO  vouNG  lady's 

is  far  inferior  both  to  Homer,  to  Virgil,  and  to 
Milton.  His  characters,  though  different,  arc  not 
always  distinct,  and  want  those  masterly  and  dis- 
tintruishing  strokes  which  the  genius  of  Homer 
and  Shakspeare,  and  of  them  only,  knows  how  to 
delineate.  Tasso  excels  in  describing  pleasurable 
scenes,  and  seems  peculiarly  fond  of  such  as  have 
a  reference  to  the  passion  of  love  :  yet,  in  charac- 
terizing this  passion,  he  is  far  inferior,  not  only  to 
Milton,  but  also  to  Virgil,  whose  fourth  book  he 
has  been  at  great  pains  to  imitate. 

Beattie. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAGELLAN 

Ferdinand  Magalhaens,  or  Magellan,  a  Porta- 
guese  gentleman  of  honourable  birth,  having  served 
several  years  in  the  East  Indies,  with  distinguish- 
ed valour,  under  the  famous  Albuquerque,  do- 
rnanded  the  recompense  which  he  thought  due  to 
his  services,  with  the  boldness  natural  to  a  high- 
spirited  soldier.  But  as  his  general  would  not 
grant  his  suit,  and  he  expected  greater  justice  from 
las  sovereign,  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  good  judge 
and  a  generous  rewarder  of  merit,  he  quitted  India 
abruptly,  and  returned  to  Lisbon.  In  order  to  in- 
duce Emanuel  to  listen  more  favourably  to  his 
claim,  he  not  only  stated  his  past  services,  but 
offered  to  add  to  them  by  conducting  his  country- 
men to  the  Molucca  or  Spice  Islands,  by  holding 
a  westerly  course ;  wliich  he  contended  would  b^ 
both  shorter  and  less  hazardous  than  that  which 
the  Portuguese  now  followed  by  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  through  the  inlmense  extent  of  the  Eastern 
Ocean.     This  was  the  original  and  favourite  pro- 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  61 

ject  of  Columbus,  and  Magellan  founded  liis  hopes 
of  success  on  the  ideas  of  tliat  great  navigator, 
confirmed  by  many  observations,  the  result  of  iiis 
own  naval  experience,  as  well  as  that  of  liis  con- 
trymcn,  in  their  intercourse  with  the  East.  But 
tiiough  the  Portuguese  monarchs  had  tlie  merit 
of  having  first  awakened  and  encournged  the  spirit 
of  discovery  in  that  age,  it  was  their  destiny,  in 
the  course  of  a  icw  years,  to  reject  two  grand 
schemes  for  this  purpose,  the  execution  of  which 
would  have  been  attended  witli  a  great  accession 
of  glory  to  themselves,  and  of  power  to  their  king- 
dom. In  consequence  of  some  ill-founded  preju- 
dice against  Magellan,  or  of  some  dark  intrigue 
which  contemporary  historians  have  not  explained, 
Emanuel  would  neither  bestow  the  recompense 
which  he  claimed,  nor  approve  of  tlic  sclieme 
which  he  proposed ;  and  dismissed  bim  with  a  dis- 
dainful coldness,  intolerable  to  a  man  conscious  of 
what  he  deserved,  and  animated  with  the  sanguine 
hopes  of  success  peculiar  to  those  who  are  caj)able 
of  forming  or  of  conducting  new  and  great  under- 
takings. In  a  transport  of  resentment,  Magellan 
formally  renounced  his  allegiance  to  an  ungrateful 
master,  and  fled  to  the  court  of  Castile,  where  he 
expected  that  his  talents  would  be  more  justly  esti- 
mated. He  endeavoured  to  recommend  himself 
by  offering  to  execute,  under  the  patronage  of 
Spain,  that  scheme,  which  be  had  laid  before  the 
court  of  Portugal,  the  accomplishment  of  wliich, 
he  knew,  would  wound  the  monarch  against  whom 
he  was  exasperated  in  the  most  tender  part.  In 
order  to  establish  the  justness  of  his  theory,  lie 
produced  the  same  arguments  which  he  had  em- 
ployed at  Lisbon ;  acknowledging,  at  the  same 
lime,  that  the  undcrtakintr  was  both  arduous  and 


63  YOUNG  lady's 

expensive,  as  it  coiold  not  be  attempted  but  with  a 
scjuadfon  of  considerable  force,  and  victualled  for 
at  least  two  years.  Fortunately,  he  applied  to  a 
minister  who  was  not  apt  to  be  deterred,  either  by 
the  boldness  of  a  design,  or  the  expense  of  carry- 
ing it  into  execution.  Cardinal  Ximenes,  who  at 
that  time  directed  the  affairs  of  Spain,  discerning 
at  once  what  an  increase  of  wealth  and  glory 
would  accrue  to  his  country  by  the  success  of 
Magellan's  proposal,  listened  to  it  with  a  most 
favourable  ear.  Charles  V.,  on  his  arrival  in  his 
Spanish  dominions,  entered  into  the  measure  with 
no  less  ardour,  and  orders  were  issued  for  equip- 
ping a  proper  squadron  at  the  public  charge,  of 
which  the  command  was  given  to  Magellan,  whom 
Uic  king  honoured  with  the  habit  of  St.  Jago  and 
the  title  of  captain-general. 

On  the  tenth  of  August,  one  thousand  five 
hundred  and  nineteen,  Magellan  sailed  from  Se- 
ville with  five  ships,  which,  according  to  the  ideas 
of  the  age,  were  deemed  to  be  of  considerable 
force,  though  the  burden  of  the  largest  did  not  ex- 
ceed one  hundred  and  twenty  tons.  The  crews  of 
the  whole  amounted  to  two  hundred  and  thirty- 
four  men,  among  whom  were  some  of  the  most 
skilful  pilots  in  Spain,  and  several  Portuguese 
sailors,  in  whose  experience,  as  more  extensive, 
Magellan  placed  still  greater  confidence.  After 
touching  at  the  Canaries,  he  stood  directly  south 
towards  the  equinoctial  line  along  the  coast  of 
America,  but  was  so  long  retarded  by  tedious 
calms,  and  spent  so  much  time  in  searching  every 
bay  and  inlet  for  that  communication  with  the 
Southern  Ocean  which  he  wished  to  discover,  that 
he  did  not  reach  the  river  De  la  Plata  till  the 
twelfth  of  January.  That  spacious  opening  through 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  G3 

which  its  vast  body  of  water  pours  into  the  Atlan- 
tic allured  him  to  enter ;  but  after  saihnjr  up  it  for 
some  days,  he  concluded,  from  the  shallowness  of 
the  stream  and  the  fresimess  of  the  water,  that  the 
wished-for  strait  was  not  situated  there,  and  con- 
tinued his  course  towards  tlie  south.  On  the 
thirty-first  of  March  he  arrived  in  the  port  of  St. 
Julian,  about  forty-eight  degrees  south  of  the  line, 
where  he  resolved  to  winter.  In  this  uncomforta- 
ble station  he  lost  one  of  his  squadron ;  and  the 
Spaniards  sutfered  so  nmch  from  the  excessive 
rigour  of  the  climate,  that  the  crews  of  three  of  his 
ships,  lieadcd  by  tlieir  officers,  rose  in  open  muti- 
ny, and  insisted  on  relinquishing  tlie  visionary 
project  of  a  desperate  adventurer,  and  returning 
directly  to  Spain.  This  dangerous  insurrection 
Magellan  suppressed,  by  an  effort  of  courage  no 
less  prompt  than  intrcjjid,  and  inflicted  exemplary 
punishment  on  the  ringleaders.  With  the  re- 
mainder of  his  followers,  overawed  but  not  recon- 
ciled to  his  scheme,  he  continued  his  voyage  to- 
wards the  south,  and  at  lengtli  discovered,  near 
the  fifty-third  degree  of  latitude,  tlic  mouth  of  a 
strait,  into  which  he  entered,  notwithstanding  the 
murnnn-s  and  remonstrances  of  the  people  under 
liis  command.  After  sailing  twenty  days  in  that 
winding,  dangerous  channel,  to  which  he  gave  his 
own  name,  and  where  one  of  his  ships  deserted 
him,  the  great  Southern  Ocean  opened  to  his 
view,  and  with  tears  of  joy  he  returned  thanks 
to  Heaven  for  having  thus  far  crowned  his  en- 
deavours with  success. 

But  he  was  still  at  a  greater  distance  than  he 
imagined  from  the  object  of  liis  wishes.  He  sailed 
during  tlirec  months  and  twenty  days  in  an  uni- 
form direction  towards  the  north-west,  without  dis 


64  YOUNG  lady's 

covering  land.  In  this  voyage,  the  longest  that 
had  ever  been  made  in  the  unbounded  ocean,  he 
suffered  incredible  distress.  Ilis  stock  of  provisions 
was  ahnost  exliausted,  the  water  became  putrid, 
the  men  were  reduced  to  the  shortest  allowance 
with  which  it  was  possible  to  sustain  life,  and  the 
scurvy,  the  most  dreadful  of  all  the  maladies  with 
which  seafaring  people  are  afflicted,  began  to 
spread  among  the  crew.  One  circumstance  alone 
atForded  them  some  consolation  ;  they  enjoyed  an 
uninterrupted  course  of  fair  weather,  witli  such 
favourable  winds,  that  Magellan  bestowed  on  that 
ocean  the  name  of  Pacific,  which  it  still  retains. 
When  reduced  to  such  extremity  that  they  must 
have  sunk  under  their  sufferings,  they  fell  in  with 
a  cluster  of  small  but  fertile  islands,  which  afibrd 
ed  them  refreshments  in  such  abundance,  thai 
their  health  was  soon  re-established.  From  these 
isles,  which  he  called  De  los  Ladrones,  he  pro- 
ceeded on  his  voyage,  and  soon  made  a  more  im- 
portant discovery  of  the  islands  now  known  by  the 
name  of  the  Philippines.  In  one  of  these  he  got 
into  an  untbrtunate  quarrel  witli  the  natives,  who 
attacked  him  with  a  numerous  body  of  troops  well 
armed  ;  and  while  he  fought  at  the  head  of  his 
men  with  his  usual  valour,  he  fell  by  the  hands  of 
those  barbarians,  together  with  several  of  his  prin- 
cipal officers. 

The  expedition  was  prosecuted  under  other  com- 
manders. Afler  visiting  many  of  the  smaller  isles 
scattered  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  Indian  Ocean, 
they  touched  at  the  great  island  of  Borneo,  and  at 
length  landed  in  Tidorc,  one  of  the  Moluccas,  tc 
the  astonislunent  of  the  Portuguese,  ^vho  could 
not  comprehend  how  the  Spaniards,  by  holding  a 
westerly  course,  had  arrived  at  that  sequestered 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  (J5 

seat  of  their  most  valuable  commerce,  which  they 
themselves  had  discovered  by  sailing  in  an  oppo- 
site direction.  There,  and  in  the  adjacent  isles, 
l.he  Spaniards  found  a  people  acquainted  with  tiic 
benefits  of  extensive  trade,  and  willinjr  to  open  an 
intercourse  with  a  new  nation.  They  took  in  a 
cargo  of  the  precious  spices,  which  are  the  distin- 
guished production  of  tliese  islands ;  and  with  that, 
as  well  as  with  specimens  of  the  rich  commodities 
yielded  by  the  other  countries  which  they  had 
\isited,  the  Victory,  which,  of  the  two  ships  that 
remained  of  the  squadron,  was  most  fit  for  a  long 
voyage,  set  sail  for  Europe,  under  the  command 
of  Juan  Sel)astian  del  Cano.  He  followed  the 
course  of  the  Portuguese,  by  the  Cajx;  of  Good 
Mope,  and  after  many  disasters  and  sutferings  he 
arrived  at  St.  Luear  on  the  seventh  of  September 
one  thousand  five  hundred  and  twenty-two,  having 
sailed  round  the  globe  in  tlie  space  of  three  years 
and  twenty-eight  days. 

Robertson. 


AFFECTATION. 

Among  the  numerous  stratagems  by  which  pride 
rndeavours  to  recommend  folly  to  regard,  there  is 
scarcely  one  that  meets  with  less  success  than  af- 
fectation, or  a  perpetual  disguise  of  the  real  cha- 
racter, by  fictitious  appearances ;  whether  it  be, 
that  every  man  hates  falseliood  from  the  natural 
congruity  of  truth  to  his  faculties  of  reason ;  or 
that  every  man  is  jealous  of  the  honour  of  his  un- 
derstanding, and  tiiinks  his  discernment  conse- 
<juentially  called  in  question,  whenever  any  thing 
is  exliibited  under  a  borrowed  form. 


66  YOUNG    lady's 

This  aversion  from  all  kinds  of  disg-uisc,  what- 
ever be  its  cause,  is  universally  diffused,  and  in. 
ccssantly  in  aclion ;  nor  is  it  necessary,  that  to 
exasperate  detestation,  or  excite  contempt,  any  in- 
terest should  be  invaded,  or  any  com  petition  at- 
tempted  :  it  is  sufficient  that  there  is  an  intention 
to  deceive,  an  intention  which  every  heart  swells 
to  oppose,  and  every  tonjrue  is  busy  to  detect. 

This  refleclion  was  awakened  in  my  mind  by  a 
very  common  practice  among  my  correspondents, 
of  writinf,'  under  characters  which  they  cannot 
8upj>ort,  which  arc  of  no  use  to  the  expl.mation  or 
enforcement  of  that  which  they  describe  or  re- 
commend ;  and  wJiich,  therefore,  since  they  assume 
them  only  for  the  sake  of  displaying  their  abilities, 
I  will  advise  them  for  the  future  to  forbear,  as  la- 
borious without  advantage. 

It  is  almost  a  general  ambition  of  those  who 
favour  me  with  their  advice  for  the  regulation  of 
my  conduct,  or  their  contribution  for  the  assistance 
of  my  understanding,  to  affect  the  style  and  the 
names  of  ladies :  and  I  cannot  always  withhold 
some  expression  of  anger,  like  Sir  Hugh  in  the 
comedy,  when  I  happen  to  find  that  a  woman  has 
a  beard.  I  must  therefore  warn  the  gentle  Phyllis 
that  she  send  me  no  more  letters  from  the  Horse- 
Guards  ;  and  require  of  Belinda,  that  she  be  con- 
tent to  resign  lier  pretensions  to  female  elegance, 
till  she  has  lived  three  weeks  without  hearing  the 
polities  of  Batson's  coffee-house.  I  must  indulge 
myself  in  the  liberty  of  observation,  that  there  were 
some  allusions  in  Chloris's  production,  sufficient  to 
show  that  Bracton  and  Plow  den  are  her  favourite 
authors;  and  that  Euphclia  has  not  been  long 
enough  at  home  to  wear  out  all  the  traces  of  the 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  67 

phraseology  which  she  learned  in  the  expedition 
to  Carthagcna. 

Among  all  my  female  friends,  tlicre  was  none 
who  gave  me  more  trouble  to  dcciplier  her  true 
character  than  Pentliesilea,  wliose  letter  lay  upon 
my  desk  three  days  before  I  could  fix  upon  the 
real  writer.  There  was  a  confusion  of  images, 
and  medley  of  barbarity,  which  held  me  long  in 
suspense ;  till  by  perseverance  I  disentangled  the 
perplexity,  and  found  that  Fenthesilea  is  the  son 
of  a  wealthy  stock-jobber,  who  spends  his  morning 
under  his  father's  eye  in  Change-alley,  dines  at  a 
tavern  in  Covent-garden,  passes  liis  evening  in  the 
playhouse,  and  part  of  the  niglit  at  a  gaming- 
table ;  and  having  learned  the  dialects  of  these 
various  regions,  has  mingled  tliem  all  in  a  studied 
composition. 

When  Lee  was  once  told  by  a  critic,  that  it  was 
very  easy  to  write  like  a  madman,  he  answered, 
that  it  was  difficult  to  write  like  a  madman,  but 
easy  enough  to  write  like  a  fool ;  and  I  hope  to 
be  excused  by  my  kind  contributors,  if,  in  imita- 
tion of  this  great  author,  I  presume  to  remind 
them,  that  it  is  much  easier  not  to  write  like  a 
man,  tlian  to  write  like  a  woman. 

I  have,  indeed,  some  ingenious  well-wishers, 
who,  without  departing  from  their  sex,  have  found 
very  wonderful  appellations.  A  very  smart  letter 
has  been  sent  me  from  a  puny  ensign,  signed  Ajax 
Telamonius  ;  another  in  recommendation  of  a  new 
treatise  upon  cards,  from  a  gamester  who  calls 
himself  Scsostris  ;  and  another  upon  the  improve- 
ment of  the  fishery,  from  Dioclesian  ;  but  as  these 
seem  only  to  have  picked  up  their  appellations  by 
chance,  witliout  endeavouring  at  any  particular 
imposture,  their  improprieties  are  rather  instances 


bo  YOUXG    LADY  S  • 

of  blunder  than  of  affectation,  and  arc,  therefore, 
not  equally  tilled  to  inflame  the  hostile  passions ; 
for  it  is  not  folly  but  pride,  not  error  but  deceit, 
wliich  the  world  means  to  persecute  when  it  raises 
the  full  cry  of  nature  to  hunt  down  affectation. 

The  haired  which  dissimulation  always  draws 
Ui)on  itself  is  so  jjreat  that,  if  I  did  not  know  how 
much  cunning  differs  from  wisdom,  I  should  won- 
dcr  that  any  men  have  so  little  knowledge  of  their 
own  interest,  as  to  aspire  to  wear  a  mask  for  life ; 
to  try  to  impose  \\\>on  the  world  a  character,  to 
which  they  Icel  themselves  void  of  any  just  claim; 
and  to  h  izard  their  quiet,  their  fame,  and  even 
tlieir  profit,  by  exposing  themselves  to  the  danger 
of  that  reproach,  malevolence,  and  neglect,  which 
such  a  discovery  as  they  have  always  to  fear  will 
certainly  bring  upon  them. 

It  might  be  imagined  that  the  pleasure  of  repu- 
tation should  consist  in  tiie  satisfaction  of  having 
our  opinion  of  our  own  merit  confirmed  by  the 
suffrage  of  the  public ;  and  that,  to  be  extolled  for 
a  quality  which  a  man  knows  himself  to  want, 
should  give  him  no  other  happiness  than  to  be 
mistaken  for  the  owner  of  an  estate,  over  which 
he  chances  to  be  travelling.  But  he  who  subsists 
upon  affectation  knows  nothing  of  this  delicacy: 
like  a  desperate  adventurer  in  commerce,  he  takes 
up  reputation  upon  trust,  mortgages  possessions 
which  he  never  had,  and  enjoys,  to  the  fatal  hour 
of  bankruptcy,  though  with  a  thousand  terrors  and 
anxieties,  tlie  unnecessary  splendour  of  borrowed 
riches. 

Affectation  is  to  be  always  distinguished  from 
hypocrisy,  as  being  the  art  of  counterfeiting  those 
qualities  which  we  miglit,  with  innocence  and 
safety,  be   knoun  to  want.     Thus  the  man  who, 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  Otf 

to  carry  on  any  fraud,  or  to  conceal  any  crime, 
pretends  to  rig-ours  of  devotion  and  exactness  of 
life,  is  g'uilty  of  liypociisy  ;  and  his  g^uilt  is  g^reater, 
as  the  end,  for  wliicli  lie  puts  on  tlie  false  ap- 
pearance, is  more  pernicious ;  but  he  tiiat,  with  an 
awkward  dress  and  unplcasing-  countenance,  boasts 
of  the  conquests  made  by  him  among-  the  ladies, 
and  counts  over  the  tliousands  which  he  mig-ht 
Jiave  possessed  if  he  would  have  submitted  to  llie 
yoke  of  matrimony,  is  charg-eablc  onl}'-  witli  af- 
fectation. Hypocrisy  is  the  necessary  burden  of 
villany,  atTectation  part  of  the  chosen  trappings  of 
folly ;  the  one  completes  a  villain,  the  other  only 
finishes  a  fop.  Contempt  is  the  proper  punisliment 
of  affectation,  and  detestation  the  just  consequence 
of  hypocrisy. 

With  the  hypocrite  it  is  not  at  present  my  in- 
tention  to  expostulate,  thoug-li  even  he  miglit  be 
taug-ht  tlie  excellency  of  virtue  by  the  necessity  of 
seeming-  to  be  virtuous  ;  but  the  man  of  affectation 
may,  pcrliaps,  be  reclaimed,  by  finding  how  little 
he  is  likely  to  g-ain  by  perpetual  constraint  and 
incessant  vigilance,  and  how  mucli  more  securely 
he  might  make  his  way  to  esteem,  by  cultivating- 
real,  than  displaying  counterfeit  qualities. 

Every  tiling-  future  is  to  be  estimated  by  a  wise 
man  in  proportion  to  the  probability  of  attaining 
it,  and  its  value  when  attained  ;  and  neither  of 
these  considerations  v/ill  much  contribute  to  the 
encouragement  of  affectation.  For,  if  the  pinnacles 
of  fame  be,  at  best,  slipper}',  how  unsteady  must 
his  footing  be  who  stands  upon  pinnacles  without 
foundation!  If  i)raisc  be  made,  by  the  inconstancy 
and  maliciousness  of  tliose  who  must  confer  it,  a 
blessing  which  no  man  can  promise  liimself  from 
the  most  conspicuous  merit  and  vigorous  industry, 


70  YOUNG    lady's 

how  faint  must  be  the  hope  of  jg^aining  it,  when 
the  uncertainty  is  multiplied  by  the  weakness  of 
tlie  pretensions  I  lie  that  pursues  fame  with  just 
claims  trusts  his  liappincss  to  the  winds;  but  he 
Lliat  endeavours  afler  it  by  false  merit  has  to  fear, 
not  only  the  violence  of  the  storm,  but  the  leaks 
of  his  vessel.  Though  he  should  happen  to  keep 
above  water  for  a  time,  by  the  help  of  a  soft  breeze 
i:nd  a  calm  sea,  at  the  first  gust  he  must  inevitably 
Ibuiidcr,  with  this  melancholy  reflection,  that  if  he 
would  have  been  content  with  his  natural  station, 
he  nufrht  have  escaped  his  calamity.  Affectation 
may  possibly  succeed  for  a  time,  and  a  man  may, 
by  great  attention,  persuade  others  that  he  really 
has  the  qualities  which  he  presuiiies  to  boast ;  but 
tlie  hour  will  come  when  he  should  exert  them, 
and  then,  whatever  he  enjoyed  in  praise,  he  must 
sufflr  in  reproach. 

Applause  and  r.dmiration  are  by  no  means  to  be 
counted  among  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  there- 
fore any  indirect  arts  to  obtain  them  have  very 
little  claim  to  pardon  or  compassion.  There  is 
scarcely  any  man  without  some  valuable  or  im- 
provable qualities,  by  which  he  might  always  se- 
cure himself  from  contempt.  And  perhaps  exemp- 
tion from  ignominy  is  the  most  eligible  reputation, 
as  freedom  from  pain  is,  among  some  philosophers, 
Uie  definition  of  happiness. 

If  we  therefore  compare  the  value  of  the  praise 
obtained  by  fictitious  excellence,  even  while  the 
cheat  is  yet  undiscovered,  with  that  kindness 
which  every  man  may  suit  by  his  virtue,  and  that 
esteem  to  which  most  men  may  rise  by  common 
understanding  steadily  and  honestly  applied,  we 
shall  find  that  when,  from  the  adscititious  happi- 
ness,  all   the  deductions  axe  made   by  fear  and 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  71 

casualty,  there  will  remain  nothing  equiponderant 
to  the  security  of  truth.  The  state  of  the  {asses- 
sor of  humble  virtues,  to  the  affector  of  great  ex- 
cellences, is  that  of  a  small  cottage  of  stone  to  the 
palace  raised  with  ice  by  the  empress  of  Russia; 
— it  was  for  a  time  si)lendid  and  luminous,  but  tlie 
first  sunshine  melted  it  to  nothing. 

Johnson. 


CHARACTER  OF  MARY  OF  GUISE. 

The  queen  regent,  the  instrument,  rather  than 
tlie  cause  of  involving  Scotland  in  those  calamities 
under  which  it  groaned  at  that  time,  died  during 
the  heat  of  the  siege.  No  princess  ever  possessed 
qualities  more  capable  of  rendering  her  administra- 
tion illustrious,  or  the  kingdom  happy.  Of  much 
discernment,  and  no  less  address ;  of  great  intre- 
pidity and  equal  prudence;  gentle  and  humane 
without  weakness ;  z.calou.s  for  her  religion,  with- 
out bigotry;  a  lover  of  justice,  without  rigour. 
One  circumstance,  however,  and  that  too  the  ex- 
cess  of  a  virtue,  rather  than  any  vice,  poisoned  all 
these  great  qualities,  and  rendered  her  government 
unfortunate  and  her  name  odious.  Devoted  to  the 
ijiterest  of  France,  her  native  country,  and  at- 
taclied  to  the  princes  of  Lorrain,  her  brothers,  vvitli 
most  passionate  fondness,  she  departed,  in  order 
to  gratify  them,  from  every  maxim  whicli  her  own 
wisdom  or  humanity  would  liave  approved.  She 
outlived,  in  a  great  measure,  that  reputation  and 
popularity  which  had  smoothed  her  way  to  tho 
highest  station  in  tlie  kingdom  ;  and  man}'  ex- 
amples of  falsehood,  and  some  of  severity,  in  tho 
latter  part  of  her  administration,  alienated  from 


72  YOUNG  lady's 

licr  tlic  affections  of  a  people  who  had  once  placed 
in  her  an  unbounded  confidence.  But,  even  by  her 
enemies,  tliese  unjustifiable  actions  were  imputed 
to  the  Ihcility,  not  to  the  malignity  of  her  nature  ; 
and  wliile  tbey  taxed  her  brothers  and  French 
counsellors  with  rashness  and  cruelty,  they  still 
idlowed  her  the  praise  of  prudence  and  of  lenity. 
A  few  days  before  her  death,  she  desired  an  inter- 
view with  the  prior  of  St.  Andrew's,  the  earl  of 
Argyll,  and  other  chiefs  of  the  congregation.  To 
them  she  lamented  the  fatal  issue  of  those  violent 
counsels  which  she  had  been  obliged  to  follow  ; 
and,  with  the  candour  natural  to  a  generous  mind, 
confessed  the  errors  of  her  own  administration, 
and  begged  forgiveness  of  those  to  whom  they  had 
been  hurtful ;  but  at  the  same  time  she  warned 
them,  amidst  their  struggles  for  liberty  and  the 
shock  of  arms,  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  loyalty  and 
subjection  which  were  due  to  their  sovereign.  The 
remainder  of  her  time  she  employed  in  religious 
meditations  and  exercises.  She  even  invited  the 
attendance  of  Willox,  one  of  the  most  eminent 
among  the  reformed  preachers,  listened  to  his  in- 
structions with  reverence  and  attention,  and  pre- 
pared for  the  approach  of  death  with  a  decent  for- 
titude. 

Robertson. 


DEATH  A\D  CHARACTER  OF  MARY,  aUEEN 
OF  SCOTS. 

On  Tuesday  tlie  seventh  of  February,  the  two 
earls  arrived  at  Fotheringay,  and  demanded  access 
to  the  queen,  read  in  her  presence  the  warrant  for 
execution,  and  required  her  to  prepare  to  die  next 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  73 

morning  Mary  heard  them  to  tlic  end  without 
emotion,  and  crossina;-  herself  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  of  tlie  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
"  That  soul,"  said  she,  "  is  not  wortliy  the  joys  of 
licaven,  which  repines  because  the  body  must  en- 
dure tlie  stroke  of  tiie  executioner ;  and  though  I 
did  not  expect  that  the  queen  of  Enghmd  would 
sot  the  first  example  of  violating-  the  sacred  person 
of  a  sovereign  prince,  I  willingly  submit  to  thai 
which  Providence  has  decreed  to  be  my  lot ;"  and 
laying  her  hand  on  a  Bible,  which  happened  to  be 
near  lier,  she  solennily  protested  that  she  was  in- 
nocent of  that  conspiracy  which  Babington  had 
carried  on  against  Elizabeth's  life.  She  then  men- 
tioned the  requests  contained  in  her  letter  to  Eli- 
zabeth, but  obtained  no  satisfactory  answer.  Sho 
entreated  witli  particular  earnestness,  that  now  in 
her  last  moments  her  almoner  might  be  suffered 
to  attend  her,  and  that  she  might  enjoy  the  conso- 
lation of  those  pious  institutions  prescribed  by  her 
religion.  Even  tiiis  favour,  which  is  usually  grant- 
ed  to  the  vilest  criminal,  was  absolutely  denied. 

Her  attendants,  during  this  conversation,  were 
bathed  in  tears,  and,  tliough  overawed  by  tlie  pre- 
sence of  the  two  earls,  with  difficulty  suppressed 
their  anguish  ;  but  no  sooner  did  Kent  and  Shrews, 
bury  withdraw,  than  they  ran  to  their  mistress, 
and  burst  out  into  the  most  i)assionate  expressions 
of  tenderness  and  sorrow.  Mary,  however,  not 
only  retained  perfect  composure  of  mind  herself, 
but  endeavoured  to  moderate  their  excessive  grief; 
and  falling  on  her  knees  v>'ith  all  her  domestics 
round  her,  she  thanked  Heaven  that  her  sufferings 
were  now  so  near  an  end,  and  prayed  that  she 
might  be  enabled  to  endure  what  still  remained 
with  decency  and  with  fortitude.   The  greater  part 


74  YOUNG    lady's 

of  the  evening  she  employed  in  settling  her  world- 
ly affairs.  She  wrote  her  testament  with  her  own 
hand.  Her  money,  lier  jewels,  and  her  clothes, 
she  distributed  among  her  servants,  according  to 
tlieir  rank  or  merit.  She  wrote  a  sliort  letter  to 
the  king  of  France,  and  another  to  the  duke  of 
Guise,  full  of  tender  but  magnanimous  sentiments, 
and  recommended  her  soul  to  their  prayers,  and 
her  afflicted  servants  to  their  protection.  At  sup- 
per she  ate  temperately,  as  usual,  and  conversed 
not  only  with  ease,  but  with  cheerfulness;  she 
drank  to  every  one  of  her  servants,  and  asked  their 
forgiveness,  if  ever  she  had  failed  in  any  part  of 
her  duty  towards  them.  At  her  wonted  time  she 
went  to  bed,  and  slept  calmly  a  few  hours.  Early 
in  the  morning  she  retired  into  her  closet,  and 
employed  a  considerable  time  in  devotion.  At 
eight  o'clock  the  high  sheriff  and  his  officers  en- 
tered her  chamber,  and  found  her  still  kngcling  at 
tlie  altar.  She  immediately  started  up,  and  with 
a  majestic  mien,  and  a  countenance  undismayed, 
and  even  cheerful,  advanced  towards  the  place  of 
execution,  leaning  on  two  of  Paulet's  attendants. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  mourning  habit,  but  with  an 
elegance  and  splendour  wliich  she  had  long  laid 
aside  except  on  a  few  festival  days.  An  Agmis 
Dei  Imng  by  a  pomander  chain  at  her  neck  ;  her 
beads  at  her  girdle ;  and  in  her  hand  she  carried  a 
crucifix  of  ivory.  At  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  the 
two  earls,  attended  by  several  gentlemen  from  the 
neighbouring  counties,  received  her  ;  and  there  Sir 
Andrew  Melvil,  the  master  of  her  household,  who 
had  been  secluded  for  some  weeks  from  her  pre- 
sence, was  permitted  to  take  his  last  farewell.  At 
the  sight  of  a  mistress  whom  he  tenderly  loved,  in 
such  a  situation,  he  melted  into  tears  ;  and  as  he 


BOOK    OF    i'ROSE.  lO 

was  bewailing  her  condition,  and  comijlaining  of 
his  own  hard  fate,  in  being-  appointed  to  carry  the 
account  oi'  such  a  mourntul  event  into  Scotland, 
Mary  replied,  "  Weep  not,  good  Melvil ;  there  is  at 
present  great  cause  tor  rejoicing.  TJiou  shalt  this 
day  see  Mary  Stuart  delivered  from  all  her  cares, 
and  such  an  end  put  to  her  tedious  sutFerings,  as 
she  has  long  expected.  Bear  witness  that  I  die 
constant  in  my  religion ;  firm  in  my  fidelity  to- 
wards Scotland  ;  and  unchanged  in  my  affection 
to  France.  Commend  me  to  my  son.  Tell  him  I 
have  done  nothing  injurious  to  his  kingdom,  to  his 
honour,  or  to  his  rights ;  and  God  forgive  all  those 
who  have  thirsted,  witliout  cause,  for  my  blood  1" 

With  much  dillicalty,  and  aller  many  entreaties, 
slie  prevailed  on  the  two  earls  to  allow  Melvil, 
together  v.ith  three  of  her  men  servants  and  two 
of  iier  maid>^,  to  attend  her  to  the  scaflbld.  It  was 
erected  in  the  same  liall  where  she  had  been  tried, 
raised  a  little  above  the  floor,  and  covered,  as  well 
as  a  chair,  the  cushion,  and  block,  with  black 
cloth.  Mary  mounted  the  steps  with  alacrity,  be- 
held all  this  apparatus  of  death  with  an  unaltered 
countenance,  and  signing  herself  with  the  cross, 
she  sat  down  in  the  chair.  Beale  read  the  warrant 
for  execution  with  a  loud  voice,  to  which  she  lis- 
tened with  a  careless  air,  and  like  one  occupied  in 
other  thoughts.  Then  the  dean  of  Peterborough 
began  a  devout  discourse,  suitable  to  her  present 
condition,  and  offered  up  prayers  to  Heaven  in  her 
behalf:  but  she  declared  that  she  could  not  in 
conscience  hearken  to  the  one,  nor  join  with  tiie 
other;  and  kneeling  down,  repeated  a  Latin  prayer. 
When  the  dean  had  finished  his  devotions,  she, 
with  an  audible  voice,  and  in  the  English  tongue, 
recommended  mito  God  the  alilicted  state  of  the 


76  YOUNG  lady's 

church,  and  prayed  for  prosperity  to  her  son,  and  for 
a  loii<r  litb  and  peaceable  Tt'ign  to  Elizabeth.  She 
declared  that  slie  iioped  for  mercy  only  tlirougli 
the  death  of  Christ,  at  the  foot  of  whose  image  she 
now  willingly  shed  her  blood ;  and  lilting  up  and 
kissing  the  crucifix,  she  thus  addressed  it :  "  As 
tliy  arm?,  O  Jesus,  were  extended  on  the  cross ;  so 
with  the  outstretched  arms  of  thy  mercy  receive 
me,  and  forgive  my  sins." 

She  then  prepared  for  the  block,  by  taking  off' 
her  veil  and  upper  garments ;  and  one  of  the  exe- 
cutioners  rudely  endeavouring  to  assist,  she  gently 
checked  him,  and  said  with  a  smile,  that  she  had 
not  been  accustomed  to  undress  before  so  many 
spectators,  nor  to  be  served  by  such  valets.  With 
calm  but  undaunted  fortitude,  she  laid  her  neck 
on  the  block ;  and  while  one  executioner  held  her 
hands,  the  other,  at  the  second  stroke,  cut  off  her 
head,  which  falling  out  of  its  attire,  discovered  her 
hair  already  grown  quite  gray  with  cares  and  sor- 
rows.  The  executioner  held  it  up  still  streaming 
with  blood,  and  the  dean  crying  out,  "  So  perish 
all  queen  Elizabeth's  enemies !"  the  earl  of  Kent 
alone  answered,  Amen.  The  rest  of  the  spectators 
continued  silent,  and  drowned  in  tears ;  being  in- 
capable, at  that  moment,  of  any  other  sentiments 
but  those  of  pity  or  admiration. 

Such  was  the  tragical  death  of  Mary,  queen  of 
Scots,  after  a  life  of  forty-four  years  and  two 
months,  almost  nineteen  years  of  whicli  she  passed 
in  captivity.  The  poUtical  parties  which  were 
formed  in  the  kingdom  during  her  reign  have  sub- 
sisted, under  various  denominations,  ever  since 
that  time.  The  rancour  with  which  they  were  at 
first  animated  hath  descended  to  succeeding  ages, 
and  their  prejudices,  as  well  as  their  roge,  have 


BOOK  OF  PROSE.  77 

been  perpetuated,  and  even  augmented,  Amonsf 
historians,  wlio  were  under  tlic  dominion  of  all 
tliese  passions,  and  who  have  cither  ascribed  to 
her  every  virtuous  and  amiable  quality,  or  have 
imputed  to  lior  all  the  vices  of  which  the  human 
heart  is  susceptible,  we  search  in  vain  for  Mary's 
real  character.  She  neither  merited  the  exaggerat- 
ed praises  of  the  one,  nor  the  undistinguished  cen 
sure  of  the  other. 

To  all  the  charms  of  beauty,  and  the  utmost 
elegance  of  external  form,  siie  added  those  accom- 
plishmenf  s  which  render  their  impression  irresisti- 
ble.  Polite,  atfablc,  insinuating,  sprightly,  and 
capable  of  speaking  and  of  writing  with  equal 
ease  and  dignity.  Sudden,  however,  and  violent 
in  all  her  attachments ;  because  her  heart  was 
warm  and  unsuspicious.  Impatient  of  contradic- 
tion ;  because  she  had  been  accustomed  from  her 
infancy  to  be  treated  as  a  queen.  No  stranger,  on 
some  occasions,  to  dissimulation ;  which  in  that 
perfidious  court  where  she  received  her  education, 
was  reckoned  among  the  necessary  arts  of  govern- 
ment. Not  insensible  of  flattery,  or  unconscious 
of  that  pleasure  with  wliich  almost  every  woman 
beholds  the  influence  of  her  own  beauty.  Formed 
with  the  qualities  which  we  love,  not  with  the 
talents  that  we  admire ;  she  was  an  agreeable 
woman,  rather  than  an  illustrious  queen.  The  vi- 
vacity  of  her  spirit,  not  sufficiently  tempered  with 
sound  judgment,  and  the  warmth  of  her  heart, 
which  was  not  at  all  times  under  the  restraint  of 
discretion,  betrayed  her  both  into  errors  and  into 
crimes.  To  say  that  she  was  always  unfortunate, 
will  not  account  for  that  long  and  almost  uninter- 
rupted succession  of  calamities  which  befell  her ; 
we  must  likewise  add,  that  she  was  often  impru- 


78  vouNG  lady's 

dent.  Her  passion  for  Darnlcy  was  rasli,  youthful, 
and  excessive ;  and  though  tlie  sudden  transition 
to  the  opposite  extreme  was  the  natural  effect  of 
her  ill-requited  love,  and  of  his  in/rratitude,  inso- 
lence, and  brutality ;  yet  neither  tliete,  nor  Both- 
well's  artful  address  and  important  services,  can 
justify  her  attachment  to  that  nobleman.  Even 
tlie  manners  of  the  aj:^c,  licentious  as  they  were, 
arc  no  a[)olo;xy  for  this  unhappy  passion  ;  nor  can 
they  induce  us  to  look  on  tliLit  trnrrical  and  in- 
famous scene  wliich  followed  upon  it  with  less  ab- 
horrence. Humanity  will  draw  a  veil  over  this 
part  of  her  ciiaracter  which  it  cannot  approve,  and 
may,  perhaps,  prompt  some  to  impute  some  of  her 
actions  to  her  situation,  more  than  to  her  disposi- 
tions ;  and  to  lament  the  unhappiness  of  the  former, 
rather  than  excuse  the  pervcrseness  of  the  latter- 
Mary's  sutfcring-s  exceed,  both  in  degree  and  in 
duration,  those  tragical  distresses  which  fancy  has 
feigned  to  excite  sorrow  and  commiseration  ;  and 
while  we  survey  them,  we  are  apt  altogether  to 
forget  her  frailties,  we  think  of  her  faults  with  less 
indignation,  and  approve  of  our  tears,  as  if  they 
were  shed  for  a  person  who  had  attained  much 
nearer  to  pure  virtue. 

With  regard  to  the  queen's  person,  a  circum- 
fitance  not  to  be  omitted  in  writing  the  history  of 
a  female  reign,  all  contemporary  authors  agree  in 
ascribing  to  Mary  the  utmost  beauty  of  counte- 
nance, and  elegance  of  shape,  of  which  the  human 
form  is  capable.  Her  hair  was  black,  though  ac- 
cording to  the  fashion  of  that  age,  she  frequently 
wore  borrowed  locks,  and  of  different  colours.  Her 
eyes  were  a  dark  gray ;  her  complexion  was  ex. 
quisitely  fine ;  and  her  hands  and  arms  remarka- 
bly delicate,  both  as  to  shape  and  colour.     Her 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  79' 

stature  was  of  a  height  that  rose  to  the  majestic. 
She  danced,  she  walked,  and  rode  witli  equal 
grace.  Her  taste  for  music  was  jus^t,  and  she  both 
sung  and  played  upon  the  lute  with  uncommon 
skill.  Towards  the  end  of  her  lile,  long  confine- 
ment, and  the  coldness  of  the  houses  in  wiiich  she 
iiad  been  imprisoned,  brouglit  on  a  rheumatism, 
which  ollen  deprived  her  ot  the  use  of  her  limbs. 
No  man,  says  Brantome,  ever  beheld  her  person 
without  admiration  and  love,  or  will  read  her  his- 
tory without  sorrow. 

None  of  her  women  were  suffered  to  come  near 
her  dead  body,  which  was  carried  into  a  room  ad 
joining  to  the  place  of  execution,  where  it  lay  for 
some  days,  covered  with  a  coarse  cloth  torn  from 
a  billiard  table.  The  block,  the  scaffold,  the  aprons 
of  the  executioners,  and  every  thing  stained  with 
her  blood,  were  reduced  to  ashes.  Not  long  after, 
Elizabctli  appointed  her  body  to  be  buried  in  the 
cathedral  of  Peterborough  with  royal  magnifi- 
cence. But  this  vulgar  artifice  was  employed  in 
vain ;  the  pageantry  of  a  pompous  funeral  did  not 
efface  the  memory  of  those  injuries  which  laid 
Mary  in  her  grave.  James,  soon  after  his  acces- 
sion to  the  English  throne,  ordered  her  body  to  be 
removed  to  Westminster-abbey,  and  to  be  deposited 
among  the  monarchs  of  England. 

Robertson. 


A  SCENE  ON  THE  RIVER  SPEY. 

In  the  narrow  part  of  the  valley  through  wliich 
the  Spey  makes  its  way  from  the  parish  of  Laggan 
downwards  to  that  of  Kugussie,  there  is  some 
Kcenery  of  a  very  singular  cliaracter.  To  tlie  south 


80  YOUNG    lady's 

the  S[)oy  is  seen  making  some  fine  bends  round 
the  foot  of  wooded  hills.  It  is  bordered  by  a  nar- 
row strii>c  of  meadow,  of  the  richest  verdure,  and 
fringed  with  an  edgijig  of  bcautilul  shrubbery.  On 
the  north  side  rises  with  precipitate  boldness, 
Craigow,  or  the  Black  Rock,  the  symbol  and 
boundary  of  the  clan  who  inhabit  the  valley.  It  is 
very  black  indeed;  yet  glitters  in  the  sun,  from 
the  man}'  little  streams  which  descend  from  its 
steep,  indeed  perpendicular,  surface.  In  the  face 
of  tliis  lolly  rock  are  many  apertures,  occasioned 
by  the  rolling  down  of  portions  of  the  stone,  from 
whicli  echoing  noises  are  often  lieard.  This  scene 
of  terror  overlooks  the  soil  features  of  a  landscape 
below,  that  is  sutricient,  with  this  association,  to 
remind  us  of  what  has  been  said  of  "  Beauty  sleep- 
ing in  llie  lap  of  Horror."  An  eminence,  as  you 
approach  towards  the  entrance  of  the  strait,  appears 
covered  with  regularly  formed  hillocks,  of  a  coni- 
cal  form,  and  of  different  sizes,  clothed  witli  a  kind 
of  dwarf  birch,  CAtrcmely  hght-looking,  and  fan- 
cifuJ,  sighing  and  trembling  to  every  gale,  and 
breathing  odours  after  a  calm  evening  shower,  or 
rich  dewy  morning.  In  the  depth  of  the  valley, 
there  is  a  lochan  (tiic  diminutive  of  loch)  of  super- 
lative beauty.  It  is  a  round,  clear,  and  shallow 
basin,  richly  fringed  with  water-lilies,  and  present- 
ing the  clearest  mirror  to  the  steep  woody  banks 
on  the  south,  and  tJie  rugged  face  of  the  lofty  and 
solemn  rock  which  frowns  darkly  to  the  north. 
On  the  summit,  scarcely  approachable  by  liuman 
toot,  is  the  only  nest  of  the  goss-hawk  now  known 
to  remain  in  Scotland  ;  and,  in  the  memory  of  the 
author,  the  nearest  farm  to  this  awful  precipice 
was  held  by  the  tenure  of  taking  down,  every  year. 


BOOK   OF    PROSE.  81 

one  of  the  young  of  tliis  rare  bird  for  the  lord  of  the 
soil. 

The  screaming'  of  the  birds  of  prey  on  the  sum- 
mit,  the  roaring-  of  petty  waterfalls  down  its  sides, 
and  the  frequent  falls  of  shivered  stone  from  the 
surface,  made  a  melancholy  confusion  of  sounds, 
very  awful  and  incomprehensible  to  the  travellers 
below,  who  could  only  proceed  on  a  very  narrow 
path  on  the  cdgv.  of  the  lake,  and  under  the  side 
of  this  gloomy  rock. — It  did  not  require  a  belief  in 
fairies  to  look  round  ior  them -in  this  romantic 
scene.  If  one  had  merely  heard  of  them,  an  invol- 
untary operation  of  funcy  v/ould  summon  them  to 
a  place  so  suited  for  their  habitation. 

Mrs.  Grant. 


FLORISA. 


A  poor  woman,  who  lived  in  the  country,  was 
acquainted  with  a  fairy,  whom  she  invited  to  her 
lying-in,  and  was  brought  to  bed  of  a  daug-hter. 
The  fairy  immediately  took  the  child  in  her  arms, 
and  addressing  herself  to  the  mother,  "choose," 
said  slie,  "whether  your  daughter  shall  have  moro 
beauty  tlian  the  blushing  morn,  with  wit  superior 
to  her  beauty,  and  be  the  queen  of  a  larg^e  country, 
but  unhappy ;  or  whether  she  shall  be  ugly,  a  poor 
countrywoman  like  yourself,  but  contented  with 
her  fortune."  The  countrywoman  immediately 
chose  beauty,  wit,  and  a  crown,  for  her  daughter, 
regardless  of  any  misfortune  that  might  befall 
her.  The  cliild's  growing  beauty  soon  began  to 
eclipse  that  of  other  children;  her  temper  was 
mild,  polislied,  and  insinuating ;  she  would  learn 
every  thing  that  they  could  teach  her,  and  in  a 
6 


82  vouNG  lady's 

very  little  time  was  more  perfect  in  it  than  those 
that  tau^rht  her.  On  holidays  slic  danced  upon  the 
tender  grass  more  gracefuily  llian  all  her  com- 
panions ;  her  voice  was  more  moving  than  the 
softest  instruments  of  music,  and  her  songs  were 
of  her  own  composing.  At  first  she  was  not  sen- 
Bible  of  her  charms ;  hut  playing  with  her  com- 
panions  one  day  at  the  brink  of  a  crystal  fountain, 
she  saw  what  ditfcrcnce  there  was  between  herself 
and  tlie  others,  and  she  admired  herself.  The 
whole  country,  who  came  in  crowds  to  gaze  upon 
her,  made  iier  more  sensible  of  her  charms.  Her 
mother,  who  built  her  hopes  on  the  prediction  of 
the  fiiiry,  already  looked  on  her  as  a  queen,  and  by 
her  fond  indulgence  spoiled  her.  She  would  nei- 
ther sew  nor  spin,  nor  tend  the  flocks,  but  spent 
her  whole  time  in  gathering  flowers  to  adorn  her 
head,  and  in  singing  and  dancing  in  the  shady 
groves.  The  king  of  that  country  was  very  power- 
ful, and  had  an  only  son,  whose  name  was  Rosi- 
mond,  whom  he  wished  to  see  married ;  but  the 
orincc  would  never  so  much  as  hear  the  least  men- 
tion made  of  any  neighbouring  princess,  a  fairy 
having  assured  him  tiiat  he  should  one  day  meet 
with  a  country  lass  more  lovely  and  more  accom- 
plished than  all  the  princesses  of  the  world ;  he 
therefore  resolved  to  have  all  the  country  girls 
under  eighteen  years  of  age  assembled  together, 
that  he  might  make  choice  of  her  who  should 
prove  the  most  worthy  of  it.  They  thronged  to- 
gether, but  an  infinite  number  of  middling  beauties 
were  excluded,  and  thirty  of  them,  who  infinitely 
surpassed  the  rest,  were  selected.  Florisa  (for  that 
vvas  the  name  of  our  young  heroine)  found  it  no 
difficult  matter  to  be  admitted.  The  thirty  lasses 
were  placed  in  order  upon  a  sort  of  an  amphithea- 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  83 

tre  in  the  middle  of  a  spacious  hall,  wlicrc  the  king 
and  his  son  might  sec  them  all  at  once.  Fiorisa  in 
the  midst  of  tlicm  appeared  like  a  fine  tulip  in  a 
marygold  hed,  or  like  a  flourishing  orange-tree  in 
the  midst  of  a  thorny  hedge.  The  king  cried  out 
that  she  deserved  the  crown,  and  Rosimond  thought 
himself  happy  in  the  possession  of  her.  She  was 
stripped  of  her  rural  clothes,  instead  of  which, 
rohcs  embroidered  with  gold  were  given  to  her, 
and  in  a  moment's  time  she  savi'  herself  covered 
with  pearls  and  diamonds.  A  vast  number  of  ladies 
were  employed  in  serving  her ;  they  made  it  their 
whole  care  to  guess  her  thoughts,  and  know  what 
could  be  pleasing  to  her,  that  she  might  have  it 
without  the  trouble  of  asking  for  it.  Her  lodging 
was  a  magnificent  apartment  of  the  palace,  which, 
instead  of  tapestry,  was  hung  with  large  looking, 
glasses  as  high  as  the  room  itself,  that  she  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  beauty  reflected 
from  every  side,  and  that  the  prince,  wherever  he 
turned  liis  eye,  miglit  admire  her.  Rosimond  gave 
over  hunting,  gaming,  and  all  the  exercises  of  the 
body,  that  he  might  be  continually  near  her ;  and 
as  the  king  his  father  died  soon  afl;er  the  marriage, 
the  wise  Fiorisa  was  become  queen,  and  by  her 
prudent  counsels  governed  the  whole  state.  The 
queen-dowager,  whose  name  was  Nigrehna,  was 
jealous  of  her  daughter-in-law ;  to  her  natural 
ugliness,  old  age  had  added  deformity,  and  she 
resembled  one  of  the  Furies.  The  beauty  of  Fio- 
risa made  her  appear  more  hideous,  and  provoked 
her  more  and  more :  she  could  not  bear  the  thoughts 
of  being  a  foil  to  so  lovely  a  creature ;  she  feared 
her  wisdom,  and  therefore  gave  herself  wholly  up 
to  rage  and  envy,  and  would  oft;en  say  to  her  son, 
"  Where  was  your  spirit  when  you  married  a  poor 


84  YOUNG    lady's 

country  gh\,  wliom  yet  you  make  an  idol  of?  She 
is  as  hauirlity  as  if  she  was  born  to  tlic  tlirone. 
When  tlic  king-  your  tatlier  tliouglit  of  marrying, 
he  proilrrcd  mo  to  everybody  else,  because  1  was 
tlie  daughter  of  a  monarch  equal  in  power  to  him, 
and  in  this  you  ought  to  have  tbilowed  his  exam- 
ple. Send  back  your  little  shepherdess  to  her  vil- 
lage, and  clioosc  some  princess  whose  birth  may 
make  her  worthy  of  you."  llosimond  still  resisted 
his  motlier's  pernicious  counsels :  but  one  day  Ni- 
grelina  intercepted  a  letter  Florisa  had  written  to 
Uic  king,  and  in  which  she  had  expressed  that  love 
she  ought  in  duty  to  bear  him.  Nigrelina  gave  it 
to  a  young  n&bleman  to  carry  to  the  king,  as  a 
note  sent  to  himself  by  Florisa.  Rosimond,  blind- 
ed by  a  sadden  jealousy,  and  the  destructive  coun- 
sels of  tlie  old  queen,  had  Florisa  locked  up  in  a 
high  tower,  built  upon  the  top  of  a  steep  rock 
which  stood  in  the  sea :  there  night  and  day  she 
wept,  not  knowing  why  the  king,  who  loved  her 
dearly,  should  treat  her  so  unjustly. '  Nobody  was 
allowed  to  come  near  her  but  an  old  woman,  to 
whom  Nigrelina  had  intrusted  her,  and  who  in  her 
prison  was  perpetually  insulting  her.  Then  Florisa 
recalled  to  mind  her  village,  her  cottage,  and  all 
her  rural  sports.  One  day,  whilst,  overwhelmed 
with  grief,  she  was  deploring  her  mother's  blind- 
ness, who  rather  chose  to  make  her  a  beautiful 
unhappy  queen  than  a  deformed  contented  shep- 
herdess, the  old  woman  who  used  her  so  ill  came 
to  tell  her  tliat  the  king  had  sent  an  executioner 
to  cut  oft'  her  head,  and  that  she  must  now  instantly 
prepare  to  die.  Florisa  answered,  that  she  was 
prepared  to  receive  the  stroke  :  and  the  execution- 
er, with  liis  axe,  stood  ready  to  obey  the  king's 
orders,  who  had  been  swayed  by  the  persuasions 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  85 

of  Nigrclina ;  when  a  woman  appeared,  who  pre- 
tended that  she  was  sent  by  tlic  queen,  to  speak 
two  words  in  private  to  Florisa  before  her  death. 
The  old  woman  granted  it,  beHeving  her  to  be  one 
of  the  ladies  of  the  court :  but  it  was  tlie  fairy, 
who,  at  Florisa's  birth,  had  foretold  her  misfortunes, 
and  who  now  had  assumed  the  shape  of  one  of  the 
queen-dowager's  ladies.  Every  body  beinjr  out  of 
the  room,  she  spoke  to  Florisa  thus :  "  Will  you 
give  up  that  beauty  which  has  been  so  fatal  to  you, 
with  your  royal  title,  to  put  on  your  former  dress, 
and  return  to  your  village  ?"  Florisa  with  joy 
accepted  the  offer,  and  tlie  fairy  applied  an  en- 
chanted  mask  to  her  face :  immediately  her  features 
grew  large  and  uiiproportioiiable,  and  she  became 
as  ugly  as  she  had  before  been  beautiful.  In  this 
condition,  who  could  have  known  her!  She  passed 
tlirough  tlie  midst  of  those  who  came  to  be  the 
witnesses  of  her  execution,  and  following  the  fairy, 
returned  to  her  own  country.  In  vain  Florisa  was 
sought  for,  she  was  to  be  found  in  no  part  of  the 
prison.  The  news  of  her  escape  was  carried  to  the 
king  and  Nigrelina,  wlio  again,  but  again  in  vain 
had  her  sought  for  througliout  the  kingdom.  The 
fairy  returned  her  to  her  mother,  who,  had  she  not 
been  beforehand  acquainted  with  her  change,  would 
never  have  known  her.  Florisa  was  pleased  with 
being  ugly,  and  living  poor  and  unknown  in  the 
village,  where  she  tended  sheep.  Each  day  she 
heard  her  misfortunes  related  and  deplored ;  songs 
ond  ballads  were  written  upon  them,  which  made 
every  body  weep ;  she  oflen  with  her  companions 
diverted  herself  in  singing  them,  and,  like  the  rest, 
she  wept :  but  thinking  herself  happy  in  her  state 
of  a  shepherdess,  she  never  would  discover  to  any 
one  who  she  was.  Fenelon 


S6  YOUNG    lady's 

THE  MOOX  AXD  STARS. 

A  Fable. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  Creation,  when  the  sun, 
after  a  glorious  but  solitary  course,  went  down  in 
the  evening,  and  darkness  began  to  gather  over 
the  face  of.  the  uninhabited  globe,  already  arrayed 
in  exuberance  of  vegetation,  and  prepared,  by  the 
diversity  of  land  and  water,  for  the  abode  of  un- 
created animals  and  man,  —  a  star,  single  and 
beautiful,  stepped  forth  into  the  firmament.  Trem- 
bling  with  wonder  and  delight  in  new-found  exis- 
tence, she  looked  abroad,  and  beheld  nothing  in 
heaven  or  on  earth  resembling  herself  But  she 
was  not  long  alone ;  now  one,  then  another,  here 
a  third,  and  there  a  fourth,  resplendent  companion 
had  joined  her,  till,  light  alter  light  stealing  through 
tlic  gloom,  in  the  lapse  of  an  hour,  the  whole  hemi- 
sphere was  brilliantly  bespangled. 

The  planets  and  stars,  with  a  superb  comet 
flaming  in  the  zenith,  for  a  while  contemplated 
themselves  and  each  other ;  and  every  one,  from 
the  largest  to  the  least,  was  so  perfectly  well 
pleased  with  himself,  that  she  imagined  the  rest 
only  partakers  of  his  felicity, — he  being  the  central 
luminary  of  his  own  universe,  and  all  the  hosts  of 
heaven  beside  displayed  around  him  in  graduated 
splendour.  Nor  were  any  undeceived  with  regard 
to  themselves,  though  all  saw  their  associates  in 
their  real  situations  and  relative  proportions,  self- 
knowledge  being  the  last  knowledge  acquired, 
either  in  the  sky  or  below  it ;  till,  bending  over 
tlie  ocean  in  their  turns,  they  discovered  what  they 
imagined,  at  fir.^t,  to  be  a  new  heaven,  peopled 
with  beings  of  their  own  species ;  but,  when  they 
perceived,  further  that  no  sooner  had  any  one  of 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  87 

their  company  touched  ihc  horizon  than  lie  in- 
stantly disappeared,  they  then  recognised  them- 
selves in  tlicir  individual  forms,  reflected  beneath 
according-  to  their  places  and  configurations  above, 
from  seeing  others,  whom  they  previously  knew, 
reflected  in  like  manner. 

By  an  attentive  but  mournful  self-examination 
in  that  mirror,  they  slowly  learned  humility  ;  but 
every  one  learned  it  only  for  himself,  none  believ- 
ing what  others  insinuated  respecting  their  own 
interiority,  till  they  reached  the  western  slope, 
from  whence  they  could  identify  their  true  images 
in  the  nether  element.  Nor  was  this  very  sur- 
prising :  stars  being  only  visible  points,  without 
any  distinction  of  limbs,  each  was  all  eye,  and, 
though  he  could  see  others  most  correctly,  he  could 
neither  see  himself,  nor  any  part  of  himself,  till  he 
came  to  reflection !  The  comet,  however,  having  a 
long  train  of  brightness  streaming  sunward,  could 
review  that,  and  did  review  it  with  ineffable  self, 
complacency:  —  indeed,  after  all  pretensions  to 
precedence,  he  was  at  length  acknowledged  king 
of  the  hemisphere,  if  not  by  the  universal  assent, 
by  the  silent  envy  of  all  his  rivals. 

But  the  object  which  attracted  most  attention 
and  astonishment,  too,  was  a  slender  thread  of 
light,  that  scarcely  could  be  discerned  through  the 
blush  of  evening,  and  vanished  soon  after  night- 
fall, as  if  ashamed  to  appear  in  so  scanty  a  form, 
like  an  unfinislied  work  of  creation.  It  was  the 
moon, — the  first  new  moon.  Timidly  she  looked 
around  upon  the  glittering  nmltitude,  that  crowded 
through  tlie  dark  serenity  of  sj)aee,  and  filled  it 
witli  life  and  beauty.  Minute,  indeed,  tliey  seem- 
ed  to  her,  but  perfect  in  symmetry,  and  formed  to 
siiine  for  ever;  while  she  was  unshapen,  incom- 


88  YOUNG  lady's 

plctc,  and  evanescent.  In  her  Immility  she  was 
;,Mad  to  hide;  herself  from  their  keen  glances  in 
tiie  friendly  bosom  of  the  ocean,  wishuig  for  im- 
mediate extinction. 

When  she  was  gone,  the  stars  looked  one  at  an- 
other with  inquisitive  surprise,  as  much  as  to  say, 
•*  What  a  figure  I"  It  was  so  evident  that  they  all 
thought  alike,  and  thouglit  contemptuously  of  the 
apparition,  (though  at  first  they  almost  doubted 
whether  they  should  not  be  frightened,)  that  tlicy 
soon  began  to  talk  freely  concerning  her  ;  of  course 
not  with  audible  accents,  but  in  the  language  of 
intelligent  sparkles,  in  which  stars  are  accustomed 
to  co"nverse,  with  telegraphic  precision,  from  one 
end  of  heaven  to  the  other,  and  which  no  dialect 
on  earth  so  nearly  resembles  as  the  language  of 
the  eyes, — the  only  one,  probably,  that  lias  sur- 
vived in  its  purity,  not  only  the  confusion  of  Babel, 
but  the  revolutions  of  all  ages. — Her  crooked  form, 
which  they  deemed  a  violation  of  the  order  of  na- 
ture, and  her  shyness,  equally  unlike  the  frank  in- 
tercourse of  stars,  were  ridiculed  and  censured 
from  pole  to  pole ;  for  what  good  purpose  such  a 
monster  could  have  been  created,  not  the  wisest 
could  conjecture  ;  yet,  to  tell  the  truth,  every  one, 
tliough  glad  to  be  countenanced  in  the  affectation 
of  scorn  by  the  rest,  had  secret  misgivings  con- 
cerning the  stranger,  and  envied  the  delicate  bril- 
liancy of  her  light,  while  she  seemed  but  the  frag- 
ment of  a  sunbeam, — they,  indeed,  knew  nothing 
about  the  sun, — detached  from  a  long  line,  and 
exquisitely  bended. 

AH  the  gay  company,  however,  quickly  returned 
to  the  admiration  of  themselves  and  the  inspection 
of  each  other.  What  became  of  them,  when  they 
descended  into  the  ocean,  they  could  not  deter- 


BOOK    OF   PROSE. 


mine ;  some  imagined  that  they  ccasea  to  be 
otliers  that  they  transmigrated  into  new  forms ; 
while  a  third  party  thought  it  probable,  as  the 
earth  was  evidently  convex,  that  their  departed 
friends  travelled  through  an  undcr-archmg  sky, 
and  might  hereafter  reascend  from  the  opposite 
quarter.  In  this  hypothesis  tliey  were  confirmed 
by  tlic  testimony  of  the  stars  that  came  from  the 
oiist,  who  unanimously  asserted,  that  they  had  been 
pre-existent  for  several  hours  in  a  rcjmote  region 
of  sky,  over  continents  and  seas  now  mvisible  to 
them ;  and,  moreover,  that,  when  they  rose  here, 
tliey  had  actually  seemed  to  set  there. 

Thus  the  first  night  passed  away.  But,  when 
tlie  east  began  to  dawn,  consternation  seized  the 
whole  army  of  celestials,  each  feeling  himself 
fainting  into  invisibility,  and,  as  he  feared,  into 
nothingness,  while  his  neighbours  were,  one  after 
another,  totally  disappearing.  At  length  the  sun 
arose,  and  filled  the  heavens,  and  clothed  the  earth 
with  his  glory.  How  he  spent  that  day  belongs 
not  to  this  history ;  but  it  is  elsewhere  recorded, 
that,  for  the  first  time  from  eternity,  the  lark,  on 
the  wings  of  the  morning,  sprang  up  to  salute  him, 
the  eagle,  at  noon,  looked  nndazzled  on  his  splen- 
<lour,  and  when  he  went  down  beyond  the  deep, 
leviathan  was  sporting  amidst  the  multitude  of 
waves. 

Then  again,  in  tlie  evening,  the  vanished  con- 
stellations awoke  gradually,  and,  on  opening  their 
eyes,  were  so  rejoiced  at  meeting  together, — not 
one  being  wanting  of  last  night's  levee, — that  tliey 
were  in  the  highest  good  humour  with  tliemselves 
and  one  another.  Tricked  in  all  their  beams,  and 
darting  theiR  benignest  influence,  they  exchanged 
smiles  and  endearments,  and  made  vows  of  aiiec- 


90  YOUNO    lady's 

tion  eternal  and  uncliangcable  ;  wliilc,  from  this 
netlier  orb,  the  song-  of  tlie  nig-Jitingale  rose  out  of 
darkness,  and  cliarnied  even  the  stars  in  their 
courses,  being  the  first  sound,  except  the  roar  of 
ocean,  that  tlicy  had  ever  heard.  "  The  music  of 
the  spheres"  may  be  traced  to  the  rapture  of  that 
hour. 

The  little  gleaming  horn  was  again  discerned, 
leaning  backward  over  the  western  hills.  This 
companionlcss  luminary,  they  thought, — but  they 
must  be  mistaken, — it  could  not  be, — and  yet  tliey 
were  afraid  that  it  was  so, — appeared  somewJiat 
stronger  than  on  the  former  occasion.  The  moon 
herself,  still  only  blinking  at  the  scene  of  magni- 
ficence, early  escaped  beneath  the  horizon,  leaving 
the  cornet  in  proud  possession  of  the  sky. 

About  midnight,  the  whole  congregation,  shin- 
ing in  quiet  and  amicable  splendour,  as  tliey  glid- 
ed,  with  unfclt  and  invisible  motion,  through  the 
pure  blue  field  of  ether,  were  suddenly  startled  by 
a  phantom  of  fire,  on  the  approach  of  which  the 
comet  himself  turned  pale,  the  planets  dwindled 
into  dim  specks,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  stars 
swooned  utterly  away.  Shooting  upwards,  like  an 
arrow  of  flame,  from  the  east, — in  the  zenith  it 
was  condensed  to  a  globe,  with  scintillating  spires 
diverging  on  every  side, — it  paused  not  a  moment 
there,  but  rushing,  witli  accelerated  velocity,  to- 
wards the  west,  burst  into  a  thousand  coruscations, 
that  swept  themselves  into  annihilation  before  it 
could  be  said  that  they  were. 

The  blaze  of  this  meteor  was  so  refulgent,  that 
passing  blindness  struck  the  constellations,  and, 
after  they  were  conscious  of  its  disappearance,  it 
took  many  twinklings  of  their  eyes  before  they 
rould  see  distinctly  agiiin.     Tiicn  with  one  accord 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  91 

they  exclaimed,  "  How  beautiful !  how  transient  I" 
— After  gravely  nioraliziufr  for  a  good  while  on  its 
enviable  glory,  but  unenviable  doom,  they  were  all 
reeonciled  to  their  own  milder  but  more  perma- 
nent lustre.  One  pleasant  effeet  was  produced  by 
tlie  visit  of  the  stranger  ;  the  comet  thenceforward 
appeared  less  illustrious  in  their  e3'es  by  compari- 
son with  this  more  gorgeous  phenomenon,  which, 
though  it  came  in  an  instant,  and  went  as  it  came, 
never  to  return,  ceased  not  to  shine  in  their  re- 
membrance night  after  night. 

On  the  third  evening,  the  moon  was  so  obvious- 
ly increased  in  size  and  splendour,  and  stood  so 
much  higher  in  the  firmament  than  at  first, 
though  she  still  hastened  out  of  sight,  that  she 
was  the  sole  subject  of  conversation  on  both  sides 
of  the  galaxy,  till  the  breeze,  that  awakened  new- 
ly-created man  from  his  first  slumber  in  paradise, 
warned  the  stars  to  retire,  and  the  sun,  with  a 
pomp  never  witnessed  in  our  degenerate  days, 
ushered  in  the  great  Sabbath  of  creation,  when 
"  the  heavens  and  the  earth  were  finished,  and  all 
the  host  of  them." 

The  following  niglit  the  moon  took  her  station 
still  higher,  and  looked  brighter  than  before ;  in- 
somuch tliat  it  was  remarked  of  the  lesser  stars  in 
her  vicinity,  that  many  of  them  were  paler,  and 
some  no  longer  visible.  As  their  associates  knew 
not  how  to  account  for  this,  they,  naturally  enough, 
presumed  that  her  light  was  fed  by  the  accession 
and  absorption  of  theirs ;  and  the  alarm  became 
general,  that  she  would  tlms  continue  to  thrive  by 
consuming  her  neighbours,  till  she  had  incorporat- 
ed them  all  with  herself. 

Still,  however,  she  preserved  her  humility  and 
shamefacedness,  till  her  crescent  had  exceeded  the 


92  vouNQ  lady's 

first  quarter.  Hitherto  she  had  only  grown  love- 
lier, but  now  slie  grew  prouder  at  every  step  of 
her  prel'eruient.  Iler  rays,  too,  became  so  intoler- 
ably dazzling',  that  fewer  and  fewer  of  the  stars 
could  endure  their  presence,  but  shrouded  them- 
selves in  her  light  as  behind  a  veil  of  darkness. 
Wlien  she  verged  to  maturity,  the  heavens  seemed 
too  small  for  her  ambition.  She  "  rose  in  clouded 
majesty,"  but  the  clouds  melted  at  her  approach, 
or  spread  their  garments  in  her  path,  of  many  a 
rich  and  rainbow  tint. 

She  had  crossed  the  comet  in  her  course,  and 
left  him  as  wan  as  a  vapour  behind  her.  On  the 
night  of  her  fullness  she  triumphed  gloriously  in 
mid  heaven,  smiled  on  the  earth,  and  arrayed  it  in 
a  softer  day ;  for  she  had  repeatedly  seen  the  sun, 
and,  though  she  could  not  rival  him  when  she  was 
above  the  horizon,  she  fondly  hoped  to  make  his 
absence  forgotten.  Over  tlie  ocean  slie  hung, 
enamoured  of  her  own  beauty  reflected  in  the 
abyss,  'i'he  few  stars,  that  still  could  stand  amidst 
her  overpowering  effulgence,  converged  their  rays, 
and  shrunk  into  bluer  depths  of  ether,  to  gaze  at  a 
safe  distance  upon  her.  "What  more  can  she  be?" 
— thought  these  scattered  survivors  of  myriads  of 
extinguished  sparklers  ;  for  the  "  numbers  without 
number"  that  thronged  the  milky  way  had  alto- 
gether disappeared.  Again  thought  these  rem- 
nants  of  the  host  of  heaven,  "  As  hitherto  she  has 
increased  every  evening,  to-morrow  she  w411  do 
the  same,  and  we  must  be  lost,  like  our  brethren, 
in  her  all-conquering  resplendence." 

The  moon  herself  was  not  a  little  puzzled  to 
imagine  what  might  become  of  her ;  but  vanity 
readily  suggested,  that,  although  she  had  reached 
her  full  form,  she  had  not  reached '  her  fUI  size ; 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  93 

consequently,  by  a  regular  niglitly  expansion  of 
her  cireuniicrcncc,  she  would  fuially  cover  the 
whole  convexity  of  sky,  not  only  to  the  exclusion 
of  the  stars,  but  the  sun  himself,  since  he  occupied 
a  superior  region  of  space,  and  certainly  could  not 
shine  through  her ; — till  man,  and  his  beautiful 
companion  woman,  looking  upward  from  tlie 
bowers  of  Eden,  would  see  all  moon  above  them, 
and  walk  in  the  light  of  her  countenance  for  ever. 
In  the  midst  of  this  self-pleasing  illusion,  a  film 
crept  upon  her,  which  spread  from  lier  utmost 
verge  athwart  her  centre,  till  it  had  completely 
eclipsed  her  visage,  and  made  her  a  blot  on  the 
tablet  of  the  heavens.  In  the  progress  of  this  dis- 
aster, the  stars,  which  were  hid  in  her  pomp,  stole 
forth  to  witness  her  humiliation ;  but  their  trans- 
port  and  her  shame  lasted  not  long  ;  tJie  shadow 
retired  as  gradually  as  it  had  advanced,  leaving 
her  fairer  by  contrast  than  before.  Soon  after- 
wards the  day  broke,  and  she  withdrew,  marvel- 
ling what  would  next  befall  her. 

Never  had  the  stars  been  more  impatient  to  re- 
sume their  places,  nor  the  moon  more  impatient 
to  rise,  than  on  the  following  evening.  With 
trembling  hope  and  fear,  the  planets  that  came  out 
first  after  simset  espied  her  disk,  broad  and  dark 
red,  emerging  from  a  gulf  of  clouds  in  the  east 
At  the  first  glance,  their  keen  celestial  sight  dis- 
covered  that  lier  western  limb  was  a  little  con. 
tracted,  and  her  orb  no  longer  perfect.  Sbe  herself 
was  too  much  elated  to  suspect  any  fuling,  and 
fondly  imagined,  by  that  species  of  self-measure- 
ment, wbcreby  earthly  as  well  as  heavenly  bodies 
are  apt  to  deem  themselves  greater  tlian  they  are, 
that  she  must  have  continued  to  increase  all  round, 
— till  she  had  got  above  the  Atlantic  ;  but  even 


94  YOUNG  lady's 

then  she  was  only  chajrrincd  to  perceive  that  her 
image  was  no  larger  than  it  had  been  last  night 
There  was  not  a  star  in  the  horoscope, — no,  not 
tlie  comet  himself, — durst  toll  her  she  was  less. 

Another  day  went,  and  another  night  came. 
She  rose,  as  usual,  a  little  later.  Even  while  she 
travelled  above  the  land,  she  was  haunted  with  the 
idea,  tliat  her  lustre  was  rather  feebler  than  it  had 
been  ;  but,  when  she  beheld  her  face  in  the  sea, 
she  could  no  longer  overlook  the  unwelcome  de- 
feet.  Tlie  season  was  boisterous ;  the  wind  rose 
suddenly,  and  the  waves  burst  into  foam  ;  perhaps 
the  tide,  for  the  first  time,  then  was  affected  by 
sympathy  v.ith  the  moon ;  and,  what  had  never 
happened  before,  an  universal  tempest  mingled 
heaven  and  earth  in  rain,  and  lightning,  and  dark- 
ness. She  plunged  among  the  thickest  of  the 
thunder-clouds,  and,  in  the  confusion  that  hid  her 
disgrace,  her  exulting  rivals  were  all,  likewise,  put 
out  of  countenance. 

On  the  next  evening,  and  every  evening  after- 
wards, the  moon  came  forth  later,  and  less,  and 
dimmer  ;  while,  on  each  occasion,  more  and  more 
of  the  minor  stars,  which  had  formerly  vanished 
from  her  eye,  reappeared  to  witness  her  fading 
honours  and  disfigured  form.  Prosperity  had  made 
her  vain  ;  adversity  brought  her  to  her  mind  again, 
and  humility  soon  compensated  the  loss  of  glaring 
distinction  with  softer  charms,  that  won  the  regard 
which  haughtiness  had  repelled  ;  for,  when  she 
had  worn  otf  her  uncouth,  gibbous  aspect,  and 
through  the  last  quarter  her  profile  waned  into  a 
hollow  shell,  she  appeared  more  graceful  than  ever 
in  the  eyes  of  all  heaven.  When  she  was  original- 
ly seen  among  them,  the  stars  contemned  her; 
jifterwards,  as  she  grew  in  beauty,  they  envied, 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  95 

feared,  hated,  and  finally  fled  from  lier.  ^As  she 
relapsed  into  insignitlcanee,  they  first  rejoiced  in 
her  deeay,  then  endured  her  superiority  beeause  it 
could  not  last  long  ;  but,  when  they  marked  Jiow 
she  had  wasted  away  every  time  they  met,  com- 
passion succeeded,  and  on  the  three  last  nights, 
(like  a  human  fair  one  in  the  latest  stage  of  de- 
cline, growing  lovelier  and  dearer  to  lier  friends 
till  tlie  close,)  she  disarmed  hostility,  conciliated 
kindness,  and  secured  atfection ;  she  was  admired, 
beloved,  and  unenvied  by  all. 

At  length  tlierc  came  a  night  wlien  there  was 
no  moon.  There  was  silence  in  lieaven  all  that 
night.  In  serene  meditation  on  the  changes  of  a 
month,  the  stars  pursued  tlicir  journey  from  sunset 
to  daybreak.  The  comet  liad,  likewise,  departed 
into  unknown  regions.  His  fading  lustre  liad  been 
attributed,  at  first,  to  the  bolder  radiance  of  the 
moon  in  her  meridian,  but,  during  her  wane,  while 
inferior  luminaries  were  brightening  around  her, 
he  was  growing  fainter  and  smaller  every  evening, 
and  now  he  was  no  more.  Ol"  the  rest,  plan(;ts  and 
stars,  all  were  unimpaired  in  their  light,  and  tlic 
former  only  slightly  varied  in  their  positions.  The 
whole  multitude,  wiser  by  experience,  and  better 
for  their  knowledge,  were  immble,  contented,  and 
grateful,  each  for  his  lot,  whether  splendid  or  ob- 
ecurc. 

Next  evening,  to  the  joy  and  astonishment  of 
«J1,  the  moon,  with  a  new  crescent,  was  descried 
m  the  west;  and  instantly,  from  every  quarter 
of  tiie  pole,  she  was  congratulated  on  her  liappy 
resurrection.  Just  as  she  went  down,  while  her 
bow  was  yet  recumbent  on  tlie  dark  purple  hori- 
zon, it  is  said  that  an  angel  appeared,  standing 
between  her  horns.     Turning  his  head,  his   eye 


96  YOUNG    LADY  S 

glanced  rapidly  over  tlic  universe, — the  sun  far 
sunk  behind  him,  the  moon  under  his  feet,  the 
earth  spread  in  prosj)ect  before  him,  and  the  firma- 
ment all  g^littirini^  with  constellations  above.  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  then,  in  that  tonj^ue  wiierc- 
in,  at  the  accomplislnncnt  of  creation,  "  the  morn- 
ing" stars  sang  tog-other,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
shouteil  for  joy,"  lie  thus  brake  forth ; — "  Great 
and  marvellous  arc  thy  works.  Lord  God  Almig-h- 
ty  !  In  wisdom  hast  thou  made  them  all. — Who 
would  not  fear  thee,  O  Lord,  and  glorify  thy  name, 
for  thou  only  art  holy  ?" — He  ceased, — and  from 
tiiat  hour  there  has  been  harmony  in  heaven. 

Montgomery. 


THE  DEATH  OF  PADILLA,  AND  HEROISM  OP 
HIS  WIFE. 

TuE  resentment  of  his  enemies  did  not  suffer 
Padilla  to  Ymgcr  long  in  expectation  of  what  should 
befall  him.  Next  day  he  was  condemned  to  lose 
his  head,  thopgh  without  any  regular  trial,  the 
notoriety  of  the  crime  being  supposed  sufficient  to 
♦supersede  the  formality  of  a  legal  process.  Ho 
»vas  led  instantly  to  execution,  togetlier  with  don 
John  Bravo,  and  don  Francis  Maldonada,  the 
former  connnander  of  the  Scgovians,  and  the  lat- 
ter of  the  troops  of  Salamanca.  Padilla  viewed  the 
upproach  of  death  witli  calm  but  undaunted  for- 
titude;  and  when  Bravo,  his  fellow-sufllrer,  ex- 
pressed some  indignation  at  hearing  himself  pro- 
claimed a  traitor,  he  checked  him,  by  observing, 
"  That  yesterday  was  the  time  to  have  displayed 
the  spirit  of  gentlemen,  this  day  to  die  with  the 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  97 

meekness  of  Christians."  Beings  permitted  to  write 
to  his  wife  and  to  tlic  conununity  of  Toledo,  the 
place  of  liis  nativity,  he  addressed  the  former  with 
a  manly  and  virtuous  tenderness,  and  tlie  latter 
with  the  exultation  natural  to  one  who  considered 
himself  as  a  martyr  for  the  liberties  of  Jiis  country. 
After  this,  he  submitted  quietly  to  his  fate.  Most 
of  the  Spanish  historians,  accustomed  to  ideas  of 
government,  and  of  regal  power,  very  different 
from  those  upon  which  he  acted,  have  been  so 
eager  to  testify  their  disapprobation  of  the  cause  in 
which  he  was  engaged,  tliat  tiiey  have  neglected, 
or  have  been  afraid,  to  do  justice  to  his  virtues ; 
and,  by  blackening  his  memory,  have  endeavoured 
to  deprive  him  of  that  pity  which  is  seldom  denied 
to  illustrious  sufferers. 

The  victory  at  Villalar  proved  as  decisive  as  it 
was  complete.  Valladolid,  the  most  zealous  of  all 
the  associated  cities,  opened  its  gates  innnediatcly 
to  the  conquerors ;  and  being  treated  with  great 
clemency  by  the  regents,  Medina  del  Canipo,  Se- 
govia, and  many  other  towns,  followed  its  exam- 
ple. This  sudden  dissolution  of  a  confederacy,  form- 
ed not  upon  slight  disgusts,  or  upon  trilling  mo- 
tives, into  which  the  wJiole  body  of  the  ijcople  had 
entered,  and  which  had  been  allowed  time  to  ac- 
quire a  considerable  degree  of  order  and  consistence 
by  establishing  a  regular  plan  of  government,  is 
the  strongest  proof  either  of  the  inabihty  of  its 
leaders,  or  of  some  secret  discord  reigning  among 
its  members.  Though  part  of  that  army  by  which 
they  had  been  subdued  was  obliged,  a  few  days 
after  the  battle,  to  march  towards  Navarre,  in  or- 
der to  check  the  progress  of  the  French  in  that 
kingdom,  nothing  could  prevail  on  the  dejected 
commons  of  Castile  to  take  arms  again,  and  to 
7 


98  YOUNG    I.ADV'S 

embrace  such  a  favourable  opportunity  cf  acquir- 
ing' those  rifrhts  and  privileges  for  which  they  liad 
apiKjarod  so  zealous.  'J'lie  city  of  'J'ok-do  alone, 
animated  by  donna  Maria  Pachcco,  Padilla's  wi- 
dow, who,  instead  of  bewailing  her  husband  with 
a  womanish  sorrow,  prepared  to  revenge  his  death, 
and  to  prosecute  that  cause  in  defence  of  which  he 
had  sulfercd,  nuist  be  excepted.  Respect  for  her 
sex,  or  admiration  for  her  courage  and  abilities,  as 
well  as  sympathy  with  her  misfortunes,  and  vene 
ration  for  the  memory  of  her  husband,  secured  her 
tlic  same  ascendant  over  the  people  which  he  had 
possessed.  The  prudence  and  vigour  with  which 
she  acted,  justified  that  confidence  they  placed  in 
her.  She  wrote  to  the  French  general  in  Navarre, 
encouraging  him  to  invade  Castile  by  the  offer  of 
powerful  assistance.  She  endeavoured  by  her  let- 
ters and  emissaries  to  revive  the  sj)irit  and  hopes 
of  the  other  cities.  She  raised  soldiers,  and  exacted 
a  great  sum  from  the  clergy  belonging  to  the 
cathedral,  in  order  to  defray  the  expense  of  keep- 
ing them  on  foot.  She  employed  every  artifice 
tliat  could  interest  or  inflame  the  populace.  For 
this  purpose  she  ordered  crucifixes  to  be  used  by 
her  troops  instead  of  colours,  as  if  they  had  been 
at  war  with  the  infidels  and  enemies  of  religion ; 
she  marched  through  the  streets  of  Toledo  with 
her  son,  a  young  child,  clad  in  deep  mourning 
seated  on  a  mule,  having  a  standard  carried  before 
him  representing  the  manner  of  his  father's  exe- 
cution. By  all  these  means  she  kept  the  minds 
of  the  people  in  such  perpetual  agitation  as  pre- 
vented their  passions  from  subsiding,  and  rendered 
them  insensible  of  the  dangers  to  wliich  they  were 
exposed  by  standing  alone  in  opposition  to  the 
royal  authority.     While  the  army  was  employed 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  99 

in  Navarre,  the  reg-ents  were  unable  to  attempt 
the  reduction  of  Toledo  by  force ;  and  all  their 
endeavours,  cither  to  diminish  donna  Maria's 
credit  with  the  people,  or  to  gain  her  by  large 
promises  and  the  solicitations  of  her  brother  the 
marquis  de  Mondeiar,  proved  ineffectual.  Upon 
the  expulsion  of  the  French  out  of  Navarre,  part 
of  the  army  returned  into  Castile,  and  invested 
Toledo.  Even  this  made  no  impression  on  the 
intrepid  and  obstinate  courage  of  donna  Maria. 
She  defended  the  town  with  vigour,  her  troops  in 
several  sallies  beat  the  royalists,  and  no  progress 
was  made  towards  rcduciiig  the  place,  until  the 
clergy,  whom  she  had  highly  offended  by  invad- 
ing their  property,  ceased  to  support  her.  As  soon 
as  they  received  information  of  tlic  death  of  Wil- 
liam de  Croy,  archbis^hoj)  of  Toledo,  whose  posses- 
sion  of  tliat  sec  was  tiieir  cliief  grievance,  and  that 
the  emperor  had  named  a  Castilian  to  succeed  him, 
they  openly  turned  against  her,  and  persuaded  the 
people  that  she  had  acquired  such  influence  over 
them  by  tlic  force  of  enchantments,  that  she  was 
assisted  by  a  familiar  demon  which  attended  her 
in  the  form  of  a  negro  maid,  and  that  by  its  sug- 
gestions she  regulated  every  part  of  her  conduct 
The  credulous  multitude,  whom  their  impatience 
of  a  long  blockade,  and  despair  of  obtaining  suc- 
cours either  from  the  cities  formerly  in  confederacy 
with  them,  or  from  the  French,  rendered  desirous 
of  peace,  took  arms  against  her,  and,  driving  her 
out  of  the  city,  surrendered  it  to  the  royalists.  She 
retired  to  the  citadel,  which  she  defended  with 
amazing  fortitude  four  months  longer ;  and  when 
reduced  to  the  last  extremities,  she  made  her  es- 
cape in  disguise,  and  fled  to  Portugal,  where  she 
had  many  relations.  Robertson. 


100  YOUiNG    lady's 


THE  BLIND  WOMAN. 

Entering  the  parlour  of  the  post-house,  (at  Mau- 
ren,)  1  saw  an  old  woman  of  fourscore  sitting  be- 
fore the  stove,  chewing  with  difficulty  a  piece  of 
bread,  and  drinking  a  glass  of  wine.  By  her  side 
lay  a  crutch.  In  her  youth  she  must  have  been 
handsome,  her  countenance  was  still  pleasing,  and 
the  silent  grief  with  which  it  was  clouded,  rendered 
her  interesting  to  me.  I  asked  the  post- master's 
wife  whether  she  was  her  mother  ?  "  No,  indeed," 
she  replied,  "she  is  a  very  {X)or  blind  woman,  who 
is  obliged  to  live  on  charity,  and  who  calls  upon 
us  occasionally,  when  wc  do  for  her  what  we  can." 
— *'  But  she  docs  not  beg  ?"  "  No,  that  she  never 
does :  but  all  who  know  her  give  her  something." 
I  accosted  the  old  woman  :  "  Have  you  been  long 
blind  ?"  I  began.  "  A  short  time  ago,"  said  she, 
"  I  could  still  perceive  a  glimpse  of  light,  but  now 
this  is  vanished :  yet  I  cannot  die."  Notwithstand- 
ing the  concern  which  I  seemed  to  express  for  her, 
she  would  not  beg.  This  moved  mc :  one  word 
brought  on  another ;  she  related  her  melancholy 
8tory.  Slic  had  been  married  to  a  clergyman  in 
Hanover,  had  children,  and  lived  happily.  Then 
came  on  the  seven  years'  war,  with  poverty  and 
distress  in  its  train.  She  lost  her  all,  pined  in  want, 
and  yet  kept  up  her  spirits.  She  beheld  her  chil- 
dren expire,  and  sui)ported  them  in  the  hour  of  dis- 
solution. At  last  her  husband  died  also :  a  long 
illness  consumed  what  little  property  she  had  left ; 
she  was  obliged  to  quit  her  place  of  residence,  des- 
titute and  forlorn. 

She  was  advised  to  go  to  her  brother-in-law,  a 
counsellor  of  appeal  at  Darmstadt.     She  did  not 


?.OOK   OF   PROSE.  101 

know  him  personally,  and  report  proclaimed  liim 
;i  stranjT-c  cliaracter.  Urcycd,  liowcver,  hy  necessity, 
slic  ventured,  lieing-  pcantily  assisted  b}'-  poor  rela- 
tions, "lor,"  said  she,  "none  oftlicm  had  any  thinjnr 
to  g-ive,"  sh.c  raised  barely  sufficient  for  her  travel- 
ling expenses,  and  came  with  the  post-wagon  to 
Darmstadt.  Trembling-  she  approached  her  bro- 
ther-in-law's door.  A  servant  received  her  witli 
considerable  embarrassment,  yet  showed  her  into 
a  good  room,  and  brought  her  refreshment.  She 
remained  alone  several  hours ;  but  no  brother-in- 
law  made  his  appearance.  Towards  night  the  girl 
brought  her  a  good  supper;  but,  unable  to  eat  from 
grief  and  agitation,  she  continually  kept  asking 
where  her  brotlier-in-law  was.  "  To-morrow,  to- 
morrow," said  the  niaid,  who  jicrceived  her  uneasi- 
ness, and  felt  for  her;  "first  take  a  good  night's 
repose,  you  need  reireshment."  She  could  not 
sleep.  In  the  morning  the  servant  entered  her 
chamber  in  tears,  announced  to  her  the  burial  of 
her  relation  a  fortnight  before,  and  his  having  be- 
queathed the  whole  of  his  considerable  fortune  to 
charitable  and  beneficent  establishments.  Here  she 
began  to  weep  bitterly ;  "  and  yet  I  cannot  die," 
exclaimed  she. 

I  forget  how  she  came  to  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try, in  which  she  has  been  starving  these  fifty 
years,  and  cannot  die.  For  a  long  time  she  re- 
ceived support  from  Heidelberg ;  but  for  the  last 
eighteen  months  that  pittance  has  been  stopped. 
As  she  sits  still  without  begging,  her  pitiful  Ibrm 
often  escapes  notice ;  and  she  gets  little.  She  is 
somewhat  prolix  in  her  conversation,  but  she  re- 
lates her  narrative  in  correct  language,  and  with 
consistency  :  and  the  woman  of  education  may  be 
immediately  distinguished.     She  accepts  presents 


102  YOUNG    lady's 

with  blushing  modesty,  and  returns  cordial  thanks 
without  bcHig  abject.  Her  wish  to  die,  and  her 
invocations  to  death,  arc  extremely  moving.  Olx  1 
how  cheerlully  shall  1  forgive  the  post-master  for 
having  Icll  his  horses  in  the  field,  and  made  me 
wait  longer  than  he  ought,  if  this  brief  and  unor- 
namented  tale  furnisii  an  opportunity  to  men  of 
feeling,  wiiether  travellers  or  not,  of  affording  relief 
to  the  poor  blind  woman.  She  will  not  long  prove 
a  burden  to  her  benefactors ;  her  friend  will  shortly 
grant  her  fervent  wish,  and  softly  remove  her  to 
her  husband  and  her  children. 

KOTZEBUE. 


THE  QUALITY  WIFE. 

It  is  observed,  that  a  man  improves  more  by 
reading  the  story  of  a  person  eminent  for  prudence 
and  virtue,  than  by  the  finest  rules  and  precepts 
of  morality.  In  the  same  manner  a  representation 
of  those  calamities  and  misfortunes  which  a  weak 
man  suffers  from  wrong  measures,  and  ill-concerted 
schemes  of  lilc,  is  apt  to  make  a  deeper  impression 
upon  our  minds  than  the  wisest  maxims  and  in- 
structions that  can  be  given  us,  for  avoiding  the 
like  follies  and  indiscretions  in  our  own  private 
conduct.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  lay  before  my 
reader  the  following  letter,  and  leave  it  with  him 
to  make  his  own  use  of  it,  without  adding  any 
reflections  of  my  own  upon  the  subject  matter. 

Mr.  Spectator, — Having  carefully  perused  u 
letter  sent  you  by  Josiah  Fribble,  Esq,  with  your 
subsequent  discourse  upon  pin-money,  I  do  pre- 
sume to  trouble  you  with  an  accomit  of  my  own 


BOOK    OF    FROSE.  103 

case,  which  I  look  upon  to  be  no  less  deplorable 
tlian  that  of  Squire  Fribble.  I  am  a  person  of  no 
extraction,  having  begun  the  world  with  a  small 
parcel  of  rusty  iron,  and  was  for  some  years  com- 
monly known  by  the  name  of  Jack  Anvil.  I  have 
naturally  a  very  happy  genius  for  getting  money, 
insomueli  that  by  the  age  of  five-and-twenty  I  had 
scraped  togetlicr  tour  thousand  two  hundred  pounds, 
five  shillings  and  a  few  odd  pence.  I  then  launched 
out  into  considerable  business,  and  became  a  bold 
trader  both  by  sea  and  land,  which  in  a  few  years 
raised  me  a  very  considerable  fortune.  For  these 
my  good  services  I  was  knighted  in  the  tliirty-fiflh 
year  of  my  age,  and  lived  with  great  dignity  among 
my  city  neighbours  by  the  name  of  Sir  John  Anvil 
Being  in  my  temper  very  ambitious,  I  was  now 
bent  upon  making  a  family,  and  accordingly  re- 
solved tliat  my  descendants  should  have  a  dash  of 
good  blood  in  their  veins.  In  order  to  this,  I  made 
love  to  tiie  Lady  Mary  Oddly,  an  indigent  young 
woman  of  quality.  To  cut  short  the  marriage 
ti'caty,  I  threw  her  a  Charte  Blanche,  as  our  news- 
papers call  it,  desiring  her  to  write  upon  it  her 
own  terms.  She  was  very  concise  in  her  demands, 
insisting  only  that  the  disposal  of  my  fortune  and 
the  regulation  of  my  family  should  be  entirely  in 
her  hands.  Her  father  and  brotiiers  appeared  ex- 
ceedingly averse  to  this  matcli,  and  would  not  see 
me  for  some  time;  but  at  present  are  so  well  recon- 
ciled, that  they  dine  with  mc  almost  every  day, 
and  have  borrowed  considerable  suins  of  me;  whicli 
my  Lady  Mary  often  twits  me  with,  when  she  would 
show  me  how  kind  her  relations  are  to  me.  She  had 
no  portion,  as  I  told  you  before;' but  what  slie  want- 
ed in  fortune,  she  makes  up  in  spirit.  She  at  first 
changed  my  name  to  Sir  John  Envil,  and"  at  pre- 


104  YOUNG    lady's 

sent  writes  lierself  Mary  Enville.  I  have  some 
ciiiUlriU  by  lur,  whom  ^  he  has  christened  with  the 
siirn:iines  of  Jut  iiunily,  in  oidcr,  a:i  slic  tells  nic,  to 
wc.ir  out  the  homeliness  oi'  tiieir  parentage  by  the 
fiithcr's  side.  Our  cIdo;t  pon  is  the  Honourable 
Oddly  Enville,  Ks(|.  and  our  eldest  daughter  Har- 
riot i^nville.  Upon  her  first  coming  into  my  family, 
she  turned  off  a  parcel  of  very  careful  servants, 
who  had  been  long  with  me,  and  introduced  in 
their  stead  a  couple  of  black-a-moors,  and  tlirec  or 
four  very  genteel  fellows  in  laced  liveries,  besides 
her  Frenchwoman,  who  is  perpetually  making  a 
noi.-e  in  the  house  in  a  language  which  nobody 
understands,  except  my  Lady  Mary.  She  next  set 
herself  to  reform  every  room  of  my  house,  having 
glazed  all  my  chimney-pieces  with  looking-glass, 
and  planted  every  corner  with  such  heaps  of  china, 
that  I  am  obliged  to  move  about  my  own  Jiousc 
wit'ii  the  greatest  caution  and  circumspection,  for 
fear  of  hurling  some  of  our  brittle  furniture.  She 
makes  an  illumination  once  a  week  with  wax-can- 
dles in  one  of  our  largest  rooms,  in  order,  as  she 
I)hraj-cs  it,  to  see  company :  at  which  time  she  al- 
ways desires  me  to  be  abroad,  or  to  confine  myself 
to  tlie  cock-loft,  that  I  may  not  disgrace  her  among 
her  visitants  of  quality.  Her  footmen,  as  I  told 
you  before,  are  such  beaux  that  I  do  not  much 
care  for  asking  them  questions ;  when  I  do,  they 
answer  me  with  a  saucy  frown,  and  say  that  every 
thing  which  I  find  fault  with  was  done  by  my  Lady 
Mary's  order.  She  tells  me  that  she  intends  they 
shall  wear  swords  with  their  next  liveries,  having 
lately  observed  the  footmen  of  two  or  three  persons 
of  quality  hanging  behind  the  coach  with  swords 
by  their  sides.  As  soon  as  the  first  honey-moon 
was  over,  I  represented  to  her  the  unreasonableness 


BOOK    OF    TROSr.  lOS 

of  those  daily  innovations  which  she  made  in  my 
family ;  but  ^hc  told  n^c  I  w.-i.s  no  lon-^'cr  to  cnn- 
;~i(liT  nivsL'li'iis  ."^irJuiin  Aii\  il,  !;ut  ;>s  i.er  i;U:-l);tnd; 
and  added,  witli  a  irown,  that  I  did  not  seem  to 
l\Uow  wlio  slu;  was-.  I  was  surprised  to  be  treated 
tlius,  alter  such  iamiliarilics  as  had  passed  between 
us.  But  she  has  since  given  me  to  know,  that 
wliatever  freedom  she  may  sometimes  indulge  me 
in,  siie  expects  in  general  to  be  treated  with  the 
respect  that  is  due  to  her  birth  and  quality.  Our 
children  liave  been  trained  up  from  their  infancy 
with  so  many  accounts  of  their  mother's  family, 
that  they  know  the  stories  of  all  the  great  men  and 
women  it  has  produced.  Their  mother  tells  them, 
that  such  an  one  commanded  in  such  a  sea-engage- 
ment, that  tlicir  great-grandfather  had  a  horse  shot 
under  him  at  Edge-hill,  that  their  uncle  was  at  the 
siege  of  Buda,  and  that  her  mother  danced  in  a 
ball  at  court  with  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  ;  with 
abundance  of  fiddle-faddle  of  the  same  nature.  I 
was  the  other  day  a  little  out  of  countenance  at  a 
question  of  my  little  daughter  Harriet,  who  asked 
me  with  a  great  deal  of  innocence,  why  I  never 
told  them  of  the  generals  and  admirals  that  had 
been  in  my  family.  As  for  my  eldest  son  Oddly, 
he  has  been  so  spirited  up  by  his  mother,  that  if 
lie  does  not  mend  his  manners  I  shall  go  near  to 
disinherit  him.  He  drew  his  sword  upon  me  be- 
fore he  was  nine  years  old,  and  told  me  that  he 
expected  to  be  used  like  a  gentleman ;  upon  my 
offering  to  correct  him  for  his  insolence,  my  Lady 
Mary  ste{)t  in  between  us,  and  told  me,  that  I  ought 
to  consider  there  was  some  difference  between  his 
mother  and  mine.  She  is  perpetually  finding  out 
the  features  of  her  own  relations  in  every  one  of 
my  children,  though,  by  the  way,  I  have  a  httlc 


106  YOUNG    lady's 

chub-faced  boy  as  like  me  as  he  can  stare,  if  I 
durst  say  so ;  but  what  most  ang-ers  iiic,  when  she 
sees  me  playing  with  any  of  them  upon  my  knee, 
she  has  bcgtfcd  mc  more  tiian  once  to  converse  witli 
the  children  as  little  as  possible,  that  they  may  not 
learn  any  of  njy  awkward  tricks. 

You  must  farther  know,  since  I  am  opening 
my  heart  to  you,  tliat  she  thinks  herself  my  supe- 
rior in  sense,  as  much  as  she  is  in  quality,  and 
therefore  treats  me  like  a  plain  well-meaning  man, 
who  does  not  know  the  world.  She  dictates  to  me 
in  my  own  business,  sets  mc  rig^ht  in  point  of 
trade,  and  if  I  disagree  with  her  about  any  of  my 
ships  at  sea,  wonders  that  I  will  dispute  with  her, 
when  I  know  very  well  that  her  great-grandfathei 
was  a  flag-officer. 

To  complete  my  suffering,  she  has  teased  mc  for 
tliis  quarter  of  a  year  last  past,  to  remove  into  one 
of  the  squares  at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  pro- 
mising for  my  encouragement,  that  I  shall  have 
as  good  a  cock-lofl  as  any  gentleman  in  the  square; 
to  which  the  Honourable  Oddly  Enville,  Esq.  al- 
ways adds,  like  a  jackanapes  as  he  is,  that  he  hopes 
't  will  be  as  near  the  court  as  possible. 

In  sliort,  Mr.  Spectator,  I  am  so  much  out  of  my 
natural  clement,  tliat  to  recover  my  old  way  of  life 
I  would  be  content  to  begin  the  world  again,  and 
be  plain  Jack  Anvil ;  but,  alas !  I  am  in  for  life,  and 
am  bound  to  subscribe  myself,  with  great  sorrow 
of  heart,  your  humble  servant,   John  Enville,  Knt. 

Adpison. 


BOOK  OF  PROSE.  107 


THE  ABDICATION  OF  DIOCLETIAN. 

Notwithstanding  the  severity  of  a  very  cold 
and  rainy  winter,  Diocletian  letl  Italy  soon  afler 
the  ceremony  of  his  triumph,  and  began  his  pro- 
gress towards  the  East  round  tlic  circuit  of  the 
Illyrian  provinces.  From  tiie  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  and  the  fatigue  of  the  journey,  he  soon 
contracted  a  slow  illness ;  and  though  he  made 
easy  marches,  and  was  generally  carried  in  a  close 
litter,  his  disorder,  before  he  arrived  at  Nicomcdia, 
about  the  end  of  the  summer,  was  become  very 
serious  and  alarming.  During  the  wliole  winter 
he  was  confined  to  his  palace ;  his  danger  inspired 
a  general  and  unaffected  concern ;  but  the  })coplc 
could  only  judge  of  the  various  alterations  in  his 
health,  from  tlie  joy  or  consternation  which  tiiey 
discovered  in  the  countenances  and  behaviour  of 
his  attendants.  The  rumour  of  his  death  was  for 
some  time  universally  believed,  and  it  was  sui)posed 
to  be  concealed,  witJi  a  view  to  prevent  the  troubles 
that  might  have  happened  during  the  absence  of 
the  Cajsar  Galerius.  At  length,  however,  on  the 
first  of  March,  Diocletian  once  more  appeared  in 
public,  but  so  pale  and  emaciated,  tliat  he  could 
scarcely  have  been  rccogniz.ed  by  those  to  whom 
his  person  was  the  most  familiar.  It  was  time  to  put 
an  end  to  the  painful  struggle,  which  he  had  sus- 
tained during  more  than  a  year,  between  the  care 
of  his  health  and  that  of  his  dignity  :  the  former 
required  indulgence  and  relaxation ;  the  latter 
compelled  him  to  direct,  from  the  bed  of  sickness, 
the  administration  of  a  great  empire.  He  resolved 
to  pass  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  honourable 
repose,  to  place  his  glory  beyond  the  reach  of  for 


108  YOUNG    lady's 

tune,  and  to  relinquish  the  theatre  of  the  world  to 
Ijis  younger  and  more  active  associate.-. 

'I'hc  ceremony  of  Jii.s  abdication  was  pcribrmcd 
in  a  spacious  plain,  about  three  miles  from  Nico- 
mcdia.  The  emperor  a:?cpndcd  a  lofty  throne,  and 
in  a  speech,  full  of  reason  and  dignity,  declared 
his  intention,  both  to  the  people,  and  to  the  soldiers, 
who  were  assembled  on  this  extraordinary  occasion. 
As  soon  as  he  had  divested  himself  of  the  purple, 
he  withdrew  from  the  gazing  multitude ;  and  tra- 
versing the  city  in  a  covered  chariot,  j)rocccded, 
without  delay,  to  the  favourite  retirement  which 
he  had  chosen  in  his  native  country  of  Dalmatia- 
On  the  same  day,  which  was  the  first  of  i\Iay, 
Maximian,  as  it  had  been  previously  concerted, 
made  his  resignation  of  the  imperial  dignity  at 
Milan.  Even  in  the  splendour  of  the  Roman  tri- 
umph,  Diocletian  had  meditated  his  design  of  ab- 
dicating the  government.  As  he  wished  to  secure 
the  obedience  of  Maximian,  he  exacted  from  him, 
cither  a  general  assurance  that  he  would  submit 
his  actions  to  the  authority  of  his  benefactor,  or  a 
particular  promise  that  he  would  descend  from  the 
throne  whenever  he  should  receive  the  advice  and 
the  example.  This  engagement,  though  it  was 
confirmed  by  the  solemnity  of  an  oath  before  the 
altar  of  the  Capitoline  Jupiter,  would  have  proved 
a  feeble  restraint  on  the  fierce  temper  of  Maximian, 
whose  passion  was  the  love  of  power,  and  who 
neither  desired  present  tranquillity  nor  future  repu- 
tation. But  he  yielded,  however  reluctantl}'-,  to  the 
ascendant  whicli  his  wiser  colleague  had  acquired 
over  liim,  and  retired  immediately  after  his*  abdi- 
cation to  a  villa  in  Lucania,  where  it  was  almost 
impossible  that  such  an  impatient  spirit  could  find 
any  lasting  tranquillity. 


BOOK   OF    PROSK.  109 

Diocletian,  who  from  a  servile  ori^rin  had  raised 
himself  to  the  throne,  passed  the  nine  last  years 
of  his  life  in  a  private  condition.  Reason  had  dic- 
tated, and  content  seems  to  have  accompanied,  his 
retreat,  in  \v'hich  he  enjoyed  for  a  lon^  time  the 
respect  of  those  princes  to  whom  he  had  resigned 
the  possession  of  the  world.  It  is  seldom  that 
minds,  long  exercised  in  business,  have  formed 
any  habits  of  conversing  with  themselves,  and  in 
the  loss  of  power  they  principally  regret  the  want 
of  occupation.  The  amusements  of  letters  and 
of  devotion,  which  aftbrd  so  many  resources  in 
solitude,  were  incapable  of  fixing  the  attention  of 
Diocletian  ;  but  he  had  preserved,  or  at  least  he 
soon  recovered,  a  taste  for  the  most  iimocent  as 
well  as  natural  pleasures ;  and  his  leisure  hours 
were  sufficiently  employed  in  building,  planting, 
and  gardening.  His  answer  to  Maximian  is  de- 
servedly celebrated.  He  was  solicited  by  that  rest- 
less old  man  to  resume  the  reins  of  government 
and  the  imperial  purple.  He  rejected  the  tempta- 
tion with  a  smile  of  pity,  calmly  observing,  that 
if  he  could  show  ?>Iaximian  the  cabbages  which 
he  had  planted  with  his  own  hand  at  Salona,  he 
should  no  longer  be  urged  to  relinquish  the  enjoy- 
ment of  happiness  for  the  pursuit  of  power.  In 
his  conversations  with  his  friends,  he  frequently 
acknowledged,  that  of  all  arts,  the  most  difficult 
was  the  art  of  reigning  ;  and  he  expressed  himself 
on  that  favourite  topic  with  a  degree  of  warmth 
which  could  be  the  result  only  of  experience. 
"  How  often,"  was  he  accustomed  to  say,  "  is  it 
the  interest  of  four  or  five  ministers  to  combine 
together  to  deceive  their  sovereign !  Secluded 
from  mankind  by  his  exalted  dignity,  the  truth  is 
concealed  from  his  knowledge ;  he  can  see  only 


110  YOUNG    lady's 

vvitli  tlicir  eye?,  he  hears  nothing  but  their  mis- 
representations-. He  confers  the  most  important 
offices  upon  vie  ;  and  weakness,  and  disgraces  the 
most  virtuous  and  deserving  among  his  subjects. 
By  such  infamous  arts,"  added  Diocletian,  "the 
best  and  wisest  princes  are  sold  to  the  venal  cor- 
ruption of  their  courtiers."  A  just  estimate  of 
greatness,  and  the  assurance  of  immortal  fame, 
improve  our  relish  for  the  pleasures  of  retirement ; 
but  the  Roman  emperor  had  filled  too  important 
a  character  in  the  world  to  enjoy  without  alloy  the 
comforts  and  security  of  a  private  condition.  It 
was  impossible  that  he  could  remain  ignorant  of 
the  troubles  which  afflicted  the  empire  after  his 
abdication.  It  was  impossible  that  he  could  be 
indiifercnt  to  their  consequences.  Fear,  sorrow, 
and  discontent,  sometimes  pursued  him  into  the 
solitude  of  Salona.  His  tenderness,  or  at  least  his 
pride,  was  deeply  wounded  by  the  misfortunes  of 
his  wife  and  daughter ;  and  the  last  moments  of 
Diocletian  were  embittered  by  some  alFronts,  which 
Licinius  and  Constantino  might  have  spared  the 
father  of  so  many  emperors,  and  the  first  author 
of  their  own  fortune.  A  report,  though  of  a  very 
doubtful  nature,  has  reached  our  timeSj  that  he 
prudently  withdrew  himself  from  their  peswfer  by 
u  voluntary  death. 

Gibbon. 


THE  ELEVATED  CHARACTER  OF  WOMAN. 

The  influence  of  the  female  character  is  now 
felt  and  acknowledged  in  all  the  relations  of  life. 
I  speak  not  now  of  those  distinguished  women, 
who  instruct  their  age  through  the  public  press. 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  Ill 

Nor  of  those  whose  devout  strains  we  take  upon 
our  lips  when  we  worship.  But  of  a  much  larger 
class  ;  of  tJiose  whose  influence  is  felt  in  the  rcla^ 
tions  of  neighbour,  friend,  daughter,  wife,  mother. 

Who  waits  at  the  couch  of  the  sick  to  adminis- 
ter tender  charities  while  life  lingers,  or  to  perform 
the  last  acts  of  kindness  when  death  comes  ?  Where 
shall  we  look  for  those  examples  of  friendship,  that 
most  adorn  our  nature  ;  those  abiding  friendships, 
which  trust  even  wlien  betrayed,  and  survive  all 
changes  of  fortune?  Where  shall  we  find  the 
brightest  illustrations  of  filial  piety  ?  Have  you 
ever  seen  a  daughter,  herself,  perhaps,  timid  and 
helpless,  watching  the  decline  of  an  aged  parent, 
and  holding  out  with  heroic  fortitude  to  anticipate 
his  wishes,  to  administer  to  his  wants,  and  to  sus- 
tain his  tottering  steps  to  the  very  borders  of  the 
grave  ? 

But  in  no  relation  does  woman  exercise  so  deep 
an  influence,  both  immediately  and  prospectively, 
as  in  that  of  motlicr.  To  her  is  committed  the 
immortal  treasure  of  the  infant  mind.  Upon  her 
devolves  the  care  of  the  first  stages  of  that  course 
of  discipline,  which  is  to  form  of  a  being,  perhaps, 
the  most  frail  and  helpless  in  the  world,  the  fear- 
less ruler  of  animated  creation,  and  the  devout 
adorer  of  its  great  Creator. 

Her  smiles  call  into  exercise  the  first  affections, 
that  spring  up  in  our  hearts.  She  cherishes  and 
expands  the  earliest  germs  of  our  intellects.  She 
breathes  over  us  her  deepest  devotions.  She  lifls 
our  little  hands,  and  teaches  our  little  tongues  to 
lisp  in  prayer.  She  watches  over  us,  like  a  guar- 
dian angel,  and  protects  us  through  all  our  helpless 
years,  when  we  know  not  of  her  cares  and  her 
anxieties  on  our  account.     She  follows  us  into  the 


112  YOLNO    LADY S 

world  of  men,  and  lives  in  us  and  blesses  us,  when 
she  lives  not  otherwise  upon  the  earth. 

What  constitutes  the  centre  of  every  home  ? 
Whither  do  our  thoutrhts  turn,  when  our  feet  are 
weary  with  wandc  riiifr,  and  our  hearts  sick  with 
disappointments?  Wlierc  shall  the  truant  and  for- 
g-etful  husband  go  for  sympathy  unalloyed  and 
without  design,  but  to  the  bosom  of  her,  wlio  is 
ever  ready  and  waiting  to  sliare  in  his  adversity 
or  his  prosperity.  And  if  there  be  a  tribunal, 
where  the  sins  and  the  follies  of  a  froward  child 
may  hope  for  pardon  and  forgiveness,  this  side 
heaven,  that  tribunal  is  the  heart  of  a  fond  and 
devoted  mother. 

Finally,  her  influence  is  felt  deeply  in  religion. 
"  If  Christianity  should  be  compelled  to  flee  from 
the  mansions  of  the  great,  the  academies  of  phi- 
losophers, the  halls  of  legislators,  or  the  throng  of 
busy  men,  we  should  find  her  last  and  purest  re- 
treat with  woman  at  the  fireside ;  her  last  altar 
would  be  the  female  heart ;  her  last  audience  would 
be  the  children  gathered  round  the  knees  of  the 
mother ;  her  last  sacrifice,  the  secret  prayer  es- 
caping in  silence  from  her  lips,  and  heard,  per- 
haps, only  at  the  throne  of  God." 

Carter. 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  EMPRESS  EUDOCIA. 

The  story  of  a  fair  and  virtuous  maiden,  exalted 
from  a  private  condition  lo  the  imperial  throne, 
might  be  deemed  an  incredible  romance,  if  such  a 
romance  had  not  been  verified  in  the  marriage  of 
Theodosius.  The  celebrated  Athenias  was  educat- 
ed  by  her  father  Leontius   in  the  religion  and 


i>e«x  or  rr.osE.  tl3 

sciences  of  the  Greeks  ;  and  so  advantageous  was 
the  opinion  which  the  Athenian  philosopher  en- 
tertained of  liis  contemporaries,  that  he  divided  his 
patrimony  between  Jiis  two  sons,  beque.itliing  to 
his  daug-hter  a  small  legacy  of  one  hundred  pieces 
of  gold,  in  the  lively  confidence  that  her  beauty 
and  merit  would  be  a  sufficient  portion.  The  jeal- 
ousy and  avarice  of  her  brothers  scon  compelled 
Athenais  to  seek  a  refuge  at  Constantinople  ;  and 
with  some  hopes,  either  of  justice  or  favour,  to 
throw  herself  at  the  feet  of  Pulcheria.  That  saga- 
cious princess  listened  to  her  eloquent  complaint ; 
and  secretly  destined  the  daughter  of  the  philoso- 
pher Leontius  for  the  future  wife  of  the  emperor 
of  the  East,  who  had  now  attained  the  twentieth 
year  of  his  age.  She  easily  excited  the  curiosity 
of  her  brother  by  an  interesting  picture  of  the 
charms  of  Athenias ;  large  eyes,  a  well-proportion- 
ed nose,  a  fair  complexion,  golden  locks,  a  slender 
person,  a  graceful  demeanour,  an  understanding 
improved  by  study,  and  a  virtue  tried  by  distress. 
Theodosius,  concealed  behind  a  curtain  in  the 
apartment  of  his  sister,  was  permitted  to  behold 
tlie  Athenian  virgin :  the  modest  yovith  imme- 
diately declared  his  pure  and  honourable  love ; 
and  the  royal  nuptials  were  celebrated  amidst  the 
acclamations  of  the  capital  and  the  provinces, 
Athenias,  who  was  easily  persuaded  to  renounce 
tlie  errors  of  paganism,  received  at  her  baptism  the 
Christian  name  of  Eudocia  ;  but  the  cautious  Pul- 
cheria withheld  the  title  of  Augusta  till  the  wife 
of  Theodosius  had  approved  her  fruitfulness  by  the 
birth  of  a  daughter,  wlio  espoused,  fifteen  years 
afterwards,  the  emperor  of  the  West.  The  brothers 
of  Eudocia  obeyed  witli  some  anxiety  her  imperial 
summons  ;  but  as  she  could  easily  forgive  their 
8 


I  14  YOUNG    lady's 

fortunate  unkindncss,  she  indulg'ed  the  tenderness, 
or  pcrliaps  the  vanity,  of  a  sister,  by  promoting 
ihcni  to  the  rantt  of  consuls  and  prefects.  In  the 
luxury  of  the  palace,  she  still  cultivated  those  in- 
gcnious  arts  which  had  contributed  to  her  great- 
ncss,  and  wisely  dedicated  her  talents  to  the  honour 
of  religion  and  of  her  husband.  Eudocia  composed 
a  poetical  paraphrase  of  the  first  eight  books  of 
the  Old  Testament,  and  of  the  prophecies  of  Daniel 
and  Z  ieh;iriah ;  a  cento  of  tlie  verses  of  Homer, 
applied  to  the  life  and  miracles  of  Christ,  the  legend 
of  St.  Cyprian,  and  a  panegyric  on  the  Persian 
victories  of  Theodosius  :  and  her  writings,  which 
were  applauded  by  a  servile  and  superstitious  age, 
have  not  been  disdained  by  the  candour  of  impar- 
tial criticism.  The  fondness  of  the  emperor  was 
not  abated  by  time  and  possession ;  and  Eudocia, 
alter  the  marriage  of  her  daughter,  was  permitted 
to  discharge  her  grateful  vows  by  a  solemn  pil- 
grimage to  Jerusalem.  Her  ostentatious  progress 
through  the  East  may  seem  inconsistent  with  the 
spirit  of  Christian  humility  :  she  pronounced,  from 
a  throne  of  gold  and  gems,  an  eloquent  oration  to 
the  senate  of  Antioch,  declared  her  royal  intention 
of  enlarging  tlie  walls  of  the  city,  bestowed  a  do- 
nation of  two  hundred  pounds  of  gold  to  restore 
the  public  baths,  and  accepted  the  statues,  which 
were  decreed  by  the  gratitude  of  Antioch.  In  the 
Holy  Land,  her  alms  and  pious  foundations  ex- 
ceeded the  munificence  of  the  great  Helena  ;  and 
though  the  public  treasury  might  be  impoverished 
by  this  excessive  liberiility,  she  enjoyed  the  con- 
scious satisfaction  of  returning  to  Constantinople 
with  the  chains  of  St.  Peter,  the  riglit  arm  of  St.. 
Stephen,  and  an  undoubted  picture  of  the  Virgin, 
painted  by  St.  Luke.    But  this  pilgrimage  was  the 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  113 

fatal  term  of  the  glories  of  Eudocia.  Satiated  with 
empty  pomp,  and  unmindlUl,  perhaps,  of  her  obli. 
gations  to  Pulcheria,  she  ambitiously  aspired  to 
the  g-overmncnt  of  the  eastern  empire  ;  the  palace 
was  distracted  by  female  discord  ;  but  the  victory 
was  at  last  decided  by  the  superior  ascendant  of 
the  sister  of  Theodo'sius.  The  execution  of  Pauli- 
nas, master  of  the  offices,  and  the  disgrace  of  Cy- 
rus, praetorian  prefect  of  the  East,  convinced  the 
public  that  the  favour  of  Eudocia  was  not  sufficient 
to  protect  her  most  faithful  friends  ;  and  the  un- 
common beauty  of  Paulinus  encouraged  the  secret 
rumour  that  his  guilt  was  that  of  a  successful 
lover.  As  soon  as  the  empress  perceived  that  the 
affection  of  Tlieodosius  was  irretrievably  lost,  she 
requested  the  permission  of  retiring  to  the  distant 
solitude  of  .Tcrusalcm.  She  obtained  her  request; 
but  the  jealousy  of  Theodosius,  or  the  vindictive 
spirit  of  Pulcheria,  pursued  her  in  her  last  retreat; 
and  Saturnius,  count  of  the  domestics,  was  direct- 
ed to  punish  with  death  two  ecclesiastics,  her  most 
favoured  servants.  Eudocia  instantly  revenged 
them  by  the  assassination  of  the  count ;  the  furious 
passions  which  she  indulged  on  this  suspicious 
occasion  seemed  to  justify  the  severity  of  Theodo- 
sius ;  and  the  empress,  ignominiously  stripped  of 
the  honours  of  Jicr  rank,  was  disgraced,  perhaps 
unjustly,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  The  remainder 
of  the  life  of  Eudocia,  about  sixteen  years,  was 
spent  in  exile  and  devotion ;  and  the  approach  of 
age,  the  death  of  Theodosius,  the  misfortunes  of 
her  only  daughter,  who  was  led  a  captive  from 
Rome  to  Carthage,  and  the  society  of  the  holy 
monks  of  Palestine,  insensibly  confirmed  the  reli- 
gious temper  of  her  mind.  Alter  a  full  experience 
of  the  vicissitudes  of  human  life,  the  daughter  of 


116  YOUNG    lady's 

tlic  philosoplier  Lcontius  expired  at  Jcruf?alem,  in 
the  sixty-seventh  year  of  her  age,  protesting-,  with 
her  dying  breath,  that  she  had  never  transgressed 
tiie  bounds  of  innocence  and  friendship, 

Gibson. 


PORTRAIT  OF  A  COUNTRY  DOWAGER. 

Though  the  prevaiUng  incidents  of  my  latter 
part  of  life  have  fixed  it  almost  constantly  to  a 
town,  yet  nobody  is  more  enthusiastically  Ibnd  of 
the  country  than  I;  and  amidst  all  my  banishment 
from  it,  I  have  contrived  still  to  preserve  a  relish 
for  its  pleasures,  and  an  enjoyment  of  its  sports, 
which  few  who  visit  it  so  seldom  arc  able  to  retain. 
I  can  still  weave  an  angling-line,  or  dress  a  fly,  am 
at  least  a  hit-and-miss-man  a  shooting,  and  have 
not  forgotten  the  tune  of  a  View  holla,  or  the  en- 
rouraging  Hark  forward !  to  a  cautious  hound. 
But  though  these  are  a  set  of  capacities  which 
mark  one's  denizcnship  to  the  country,  and  which 
tiicrefore  I  am  proud  to  retain,  yet  I  confess  I  am 
more  delighted  with  its  quieter  and  less  turbulent 
pleasures.  There  is  a  sort  of  moral  use  of  the 
country,  which  every  man  who  has  not  lost  the  rural 
sentiment  will  feel ;  a  certain  purity  of  mind  and 
imagination  which  its  scenes  inspire,  a  simplicity, 
a  colouring  of  nature  on  the  objects  around  us, 
which  correct  the  artifice  and  interestcdness  of  the 
world.  There  is  in  the  country  a  pensive  vacancy 
(if  the  expression  may  be  allowed  me)  of  mind, 
which  stills  the  violence  of  passion  and  the  tumult 
of  desire.  One  can  hardly  dream  on  the  bank  of 
some  nameless  brook  without  making  a  better  and 
a  wiser  man.     I  early  took  the  liberty  of  boasting 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  117 

to  my  readers,  that,  as  a  lounger,  I  had  learned  to 
be  idle  without  guilt,  and  indolent  without  incHf- 
ference.  In  the  country,  mctiiinks,  I  lind  this  dis- 
position congenial  to  the  place ;  the  air  which 
breathes  around  me,  like  that  which  touches  the 
Eolian  harp,  steals  on  my  soul  a  tender  but  varied 
tone  of  feeling,  that  lulls  while  it  elevates,  that 
soothes  while  it  inspires.  Not  a  blade  that  vvliistles 
in  the  breeze,  not  a  weed  that  spreads  its  speckled 
leaves  to  the  sun,  but  may  add  something  to  the 
ideas  of  him  who  can  lounge  with  all  his  mind 
open  about  him. 

I  am  not  sure  if,  in  the  regret  which  I  feel  for 
my  absence  from  the  country,  I  do  not  raise  its 
enjoyments  higher,  and  paint  its  landscapes  in 
more  glowing  colours  than  the  reality  miglit  afibrd. 
I  have  long  cultivated  a  talent  very  fortunate  for  a 
man  of  my  disposition,  that  of  travelling  in  my 
easy  chair,  of  transporting  myself,  without  stirring 
from  my  parlour,  to  distant  places  and  to  absent 
friends,  of  drawing  scenes  in  my  mind's  eye,  and 
of  peopling  them  with  the  groups  of  fancy,  or  the 
society  of  remembrance.  When  I  have  sometimes 
lately  felt  the  dreariness  of  the  town,  deserted  by 
my  acquaintance ;  when  I  have  returned  from  the 
coffee-house,  where  the  boxes  were  unoccupied, 
and  strolled  out  for  my  accustomed  walk,  which 
even  the  lame  beggar  had  left,  I  was  fain  to  shut 
myself  np  in  my  room,  order  a  dish  of  my  best  tea 
(for  there  is  a  sort  of  melancholy  which  disposes 
one  to  make  much  of  one's-self ),  and  calling  up 
the  powers  of  memory  and  imagination,  leave  the 
solitary  town  for  a  solitude  more  interesting,  which 
my  younger  days  enjoyed  in  the  country,  which  I 
think,  and  if  I  am  wrong  I  do  not  wish  to  be  unde- 
ceived, was  the  most  elysian  spot  in  the  world. 


118  YOUNG    lady's 

It  was  at  an  old  lady's,  a  relation  and  godmother 
of  mine,  where  a  particular  incident  occasioned  my 
being  Icll  during  the  vacation  of  two  successivo 
Bcasons.  Her  house  was  formed  out  of  the  remains 
of  an  old  Gothic  castle,  of  which  one  tower  was 
still  almost  entire  ;  it  was  tenanted  by  kindly  daws 
and  swallows.  Beneath,  in  a  modernized  part  of 
tiie  building,  resided  the  mistress  of  the  mansion. 
The  house  was  skirted  by  a  few  majestic  elms  and 
beeches,  and  the  stumps  of  several  others  showed  that 
they  had  once  been  more  numerous.  To  the  west 
a  clump  of  firs  covered  a  rugged  rocky  dell,  where 
the  rooks  claimed  a  prescriptive  seigniory.  Through 
this  a  dashing  rivulet  forced  its  way,  which  aller- 
wards  grew  quiet  in  its  progress,  and  gurgling  gen- 
tly through  a  piece  of  meadow  ground,  crossed  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  where  a  little  rustic  paling 
inclosed  a  washing-green,  and  a  wicker  seat,  front- 
ing the  south,  was  placed  for  the  accommodation 
of  the  old  lady,  whose  lesser  tour,  when  her  fields 
did  not  require  a  visit,  used  to  terminate  in  this  spot. 
Here,  too,  were  ranged  the  hives  for  her  bees,  whose 
hum,  in  a  still,  warm  sunshine,  soothed  the  good 
old  lady's  indolence,  while  tlieir  proverbial  industry- 
was  sometimes  quoted  for  the  instruction  of  her 
washers.  The  brook  ran  brawling  through  some 
underwood  on  the  outside  of  the  garden ;  and  soon 
atler  formed  a  little  cascade,  which  fell  into  the 
river  that  winded  through  a  valley  in  front  of  the 
house.  When  haymaking  or  harvest  was  going 
on,  my  godmother  took  her  long  stick  in  her  hand, 
and  overlooked  the  labours  of  the  mowers  or  reap- 
ers, though  I  believe  there  was  little  thrift  in  the 
superintendency,  as  the  visit  generally  cost  her  a 
draught  of  beer  or  a  dram,  to  encourage  their  dili- 
gence. 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  Ii9 

Within  doors  she  had  so  able  an  assistant,  tliat 
her  labour  was  little.  In  that  department  an  old 
man-servant  was  her  minister,  the  father  of  my 
Peter,  who  serves  me  not  the  less  faithfully  that 
we  have  g-athered  nuts  together  in  ray  godmother's 
hazel  bank.  This  old  butler  (I  eall  him  by  his  title 
of  honour,  though,  in  truth,  he  had  many  subordi- 
nate offices)  had  originally  enlisted  with  her  hus- 
band, who  went  into  the  army  a  youth,  though  he 
afterwards  married  and  bceamc  a  country  gentle- 
man, had  been  his  servant  abroad,  and  attended 
him  during  his  last  illness  at  home.  His  best  hat, 
which  he  wore  a  Sundays,  with  a  scarlet  waistcoat 
of  his  master's,  had  still  a  cockade  in  it. 

Her  husband's  books  were  in  a  room  at  the  top 
of  a  screw  staircase,  which  had  scarce  been  opened 
since  his  death ;  but  her  own  lil)rary,  for  Sabbath 
or  rainy  days,  was  ranged  in  a  little  book-press  in 
the  parlour.  It  consisted,  as  far  as  I  can  remem- 
ber, of  several  volumes  of  Sermons,  a  Concordance, 
Thomas  k  Kempis,  Antoninus's  Meditations,  the 
Works  of  the  author  of  the  Whole  Duty  of  Man, 
and  a  translation  of  Boethius  ;  the  original  editions 
of  the  Spectator  and  Guardian,  Cowley's  Poems, 
Dryden's  Works  (of  which  I  had  lost  a  volume 
soon  after  I  first  came  about  her  house)  Baker's 
Chronicle,  Burnet's  History  of  his  own  Times, 
Lamb's  Royal  Cookery,  Abercromby's  Scots  War- 
riors, and  Nisbet's  Heraldry. 

The  subject  of  the  last  mentioned  book  was  my 
godmother's  strong  ground ;  and  she  could  disen- 
tangle a  point  of  genealogy  beyond  anybody  I  ever 
knew.  She  had  an  excellent  memory  lor  anecdote; 
and  her  stories,  though  sometimes  long,  were  never 
tiresome ;  for  she  had  been  a  woman  of  great  beauty 
and  accom^Ushments  in  her  youth,  and  had  kept 


120  YOUNG  r^Dv's 

puch  company  as  made  the  drama  of  her  stories 
respectable  and  interesting.  She  spoke  frequently 
of  such  ot'  her  own  family  as  she  remembered  vviien 
a  child,  but  scarcely  ever  of  those  she  liad  lost, 
thou<^-h  one  could  see  she  thought  of  them  often. 
She  had  buried  a  beloved  husband  and  four  chil- 
dren. Her  3'oungest,  Edward,  "  her  beautiful,  her 
brave,"  fell  in  Flanders,  and  was  not  entombed 
with  his  ancestors.  His  picture,  done  when  a  chil ' 
an  artless  red  and  white  portrait,  smelling  at  a 
nosegay,  but  very  like  withal,  hung  at  her  bedside, 
and  his  sword  and  gorget  were  crossed  under  it. 
When  she  spoke  of  a  soldier,  it  was  in  a  style 
above  her  usual  simplicity;  there  was  a  sort  of 
swell  in  her  language,  which  sometimes  a  tear  (for 
age  had  not  lost  the  privilege  of  tears)  made  still 
more  eloquent.  She  kept  her  sorrows,  like  the  de- 
votions that  solaced  them,  sacred  to  herself.  They 
threw  nothing  of  gloom  over  her  deportment ;  a 
gentle  shade  only,  like  the  fleckered  clouds  of  sum- 
mer, that  increase,  not  diminish  the  benignity  of 
ihe  season. 

She  had  few  neighbours,  and  still  fewer  visiters ; 
but  her  reception  of  such  as  did  visit  her  was  cor- 
dial in  the  extreme.  She  pressed  a  little  too  much 
perhaps :  but  there  w^as  so  much  of  heart  and  good 
will  in  her  importunity,  as  made  her  good  things 
Beem  better  than  those  of  any  other  table.  Nor  was 
her  attention  confined  only  to  the  good  fare  of  her 
guests,  though  it  might  have  flattered  her  vanity 
more  than  that  of  most  exhibitors  of  good  dinners, 
because  the  cookery  was  generally  directed  by  her- 
self  Their  servants  lived  as  well  in  her  hall,  and 
their  horses  in  her  stable.  She  looked  after  the 
airing  of  their  sheets,  and  saw  their  fires  mended 
if  the  night  was  cold.    Her  old  butler,  who  rose 


BOOK    OF   PROSE.  121 

betimes,  would  never  suffer  anybody  to  mount  his 
horse  fasting. 

The  parson  of  the  parish  was  her  guest  every 
Sunday,  and  said  prayers  in  the  evening.  To  say 
truth,  he  was  no  great  genius,  nor  much  a  scliolar. 
I  beheve  my  godmother  knew  rather  more  of  di- 
vinity  than  he  did  ;  but  she  received  from  him 
information  of  another  sort ;  he  told  her  who  were 
the  poor,  the  sick,  the  dying  of  the  parish,  and  she 
had  some  assistance,  some  comfort  for  them  all. 

I  could  draw  the  old  lady  at  this  moment! — 
dressed  in  gray,  with  a  clean  white  hood,  nicely 
plaited,  (for  she  was  somewhat  finical  about  the 
neatness  of  her  person,)  sitting  in  her  straight- 
backed  elbow-chair,  which  stood  in  a  large  win- 
dow,  scooped  out  of  the  thickness  of  the  ancient 
wall.  The  middle  panes  of  the  window  were  of 
painted  glass — the  story  of  Joseph  and  his  breth- 
ren. On  the  outside  waved  a  honeysuckle  tree, 
which  often  threw  its  shade  across  her  book,  or 
her  work  ;  but  she  would  not  allow  it  to  be  cut 
down.  "  It  has  stood  there  many  a  day,"  said  she, 
"  and  we  old  inhabitants  should  bear  with  one  an- 
other." Mcthinks  I  see  her  thus  seated,  her  spec- 
tacles on,  but  raised  a  little  on  her  brow,  for  a 
pause  of  explanation,  their  shagreen  case  laid  be- 
tween the  leaves  of  a  silver-clasped  family  Bible. 
On  one  side,  her  bell  and  snuif-box ;  on  the  other, 
her  knitting  apparatus,  in  a  blue  damask  bag. — 
Between  her  and  the  fire,  an  old  Spanish  pointer, 
that  had  formerly  been  her  son  Edward's,  teased, 
but  not  teased  out  of  his  gravity,  by  a  little  terrier 
of  mine. — All  this  is  before  me,  and  I  am  a  hun- 
dred miles  from  town,  its  inhabitants,  and  its  busi- 
ness. In  town  I  may  have  seen  such  a  figure; 
but  the  country  scenery  around,  like  the  tastefiil 


122  .  YOUNG  lady's 

frame  of  an  excellent  picture,  gives  it  a  heighten- 
.ng,  a  relief,  which  it  would  lose  in  any  other 
situation. 

Mackenzie. 


SHAKSPEARE. 

He  was  the  man  who  of  all  modern,  and  per- 
haps ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  com- 
prehensive soul.  All  the  images  of  nature  were 
still  present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not  labo- 
riously, but  luckily :  when  he  describes  any  thing, 
you  more  than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too.  Those  who 
accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learning  give  him  the 
greater  commendation  :  he  was  naturally  learned  ; 
he  needed  not  the  spectacles  of  books  to  read  na- 
ture  ;  he  looked  inwards,  and  found  her  there.  I 
cannot  say  he  is  everywhere  alike ;  were  he  so,  I 
should  do  him  injury  to  compare  him  with  the 
greatest  of  mankind.  He  is  many  times  flat,  in- 
sipid ;  his  comic  wit  degenerating  into  clenches, 
his  serious  swelling  into  bombast.  But  he  is  al- 
ways great,  when  some  great  occasion  is  presented 
to  him ;  no  man  can  say  he  ever  had  a  fit  subject 
for  his  wit,  and  did  not  then  raise  himself  as  high 
above  the  rest  of  the  poets. — 

Q.uantum  lenta  solent  inter  viburna  capitis. 
The  consideration  of  this   made   Mr.  Hales,  of 
Eton,  say,  that  there  was  no  subject  of  which  any 
poet  ever  writ,  but  he  would  produce  it  much  bet- 
ter done  in  Shakspcare.  Dryden. 


If  ever  any  author  deserved  the  name  of  an 
original,  it  was  Shakspcare :  Homer  himself  drew 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  123 

not  his  art  so  immediately  from  the  fountains  of 
nature  ;  it  proceeded  through  Egyptian  strainers 
and  channels,  and  came  to  him  not  without  some 
tincture  of  the  learning,  or  some  cast  of  the  mo- 
dels of  those  before  him.  Tlie  poetry  of  Shak- 
speare  was  inspiration  indeed  :  he  is  not  so  much 
an  imitator  as  an  instrument  of  nature  ;  and  it  is 
not  so  just  to  say  that  he  speaks  from  her,  as  that 
she  speaks  through  him. 

His  characters  are  so  mucli  nature  herself,  that 
it  is  a  sort  of  injury  to  call  them  by  so  distant  a 
name  as  copies  of  her.  Those  of  other  poets  have 
a  constant  resemblance,  which  shows  that  they 
received  them  from  one  anotlier,  and  were  but 
multipliers  of  tlie  saine  image ;  each  picture,  like 
a  mock  rainbow,  is  but  the  reflexion  of  a  reflexion. 
But  every  single  character  in  Shakspeare  is  as 
much  an  individual,  as  those  in  life  itself;  it  is  as 
impossible  to  find  any  two  alike  ;  and  such  as 
from  their  relation  and  affinity  in  any  respect  ap- 
pear most  to  be  twins,  will,  upon  comparison,  be 
found  remarkably  distinct.  To  this  life  and  variety 
of  character,  we  must  add  the  wonderful  preserva- 
tion of  it ;  which  is  such  throughout  his  plays,  that 
had  all  the  speeclies  been  printed  without  the  very 
names  of  the  persons,  I  believe  one  might  have 
applied  them  with  certainty  to  every  speaker. 

The  power  over  our  passions  was  never  pos- 
sessed in  a  more  eminent  degree,  or  displayed  in 
so  different  instances.  Yet  all  along,  there  is  seen 
no  labour,  no  pains  to  raise  them  ;  no  preparation 
to  guide  or  guess  to  the  eflfect,  or  be  perceived  tc 
lead  toward  it :  but  the  heart  swells,  and  the  tears 
burst  out,  just  at  the  proper  places  :  we  are  sur 
prised  the  moment  we  weep ;  and  yet  upon  rcflec- 
tion,  find  tiie  passion  so  just,  that  we  should  be 


124  YOUNG    LADY'a 

Rurpriscd  if  we  had  not  wept,  and  wept  at  that 
very  moment. 

How  astonishing  is  it  again,  tliat  the  passions 
directly  opposite  to  these,  hiughtcr  and  spleen,  are 
no  less  at  his  command  ;  that  he  is  not  more  a 
master  of  the  great  than  the  ridiculous  in  human 
nature  ;  of  our  noblest  tendernesses,  than  of  our 
vainest  foibles  ;  of  our  strongest  emotions,  than  of 
our  idlest  sensations  ! 

Nor  does  he  only  excel  in  the  passions :  in  the 
coolness  of  reflection  and  reasoning  he  is  full  as 
admirable.  His  sentiments  are  not  only  in  general 
the  most  pertinent  and  judicious  upon  every  sub- 
ject, but  by  a  talent  very  peculiar,  something  be- 
tween  penetration  and  felicity,  he  hits  upon  that 
particular  point  on  which  the  bent  of  each  argu- 
ment turns,  or  the  force  of  each  motive  depends. 
This  is  perfectly  amazing,  from  a  man  of  no  edu- 
cation or  experience  in  those  great  and  public 
scenes  of  life  which  are  usually  the  subject  of  his 
thoughts,  so  that  he  seemed  to  have  known  the 
world  by  intuition,  to  have  looked  through  human 
nature  at  one  glance,  and  to  be  the  only  author 
that  gives  ground  for  a  very  new  opinion  ; — that 
tlie  philosopher,  and  even  the  man  of  the  world, 
may  be  horn,  as  well  as  the  poet. 

It  must  be  owned,  that  with  all  these  great  ex- 
cellencies, he  has  almost  as  great  defects ;  and 
that  as  he  has  certainly  written  better,  so  he  has 
perhaps  written  worse,  than  any  other.  But  I 
think  I  can  in  some  measure  account  for  these 
defects,  from  several  causes  and  accidents ;  with- 
out which  it  is  hard  to  imagine  that  so  large  and 
so  enlightened  a  mind  could  ever  have  been  sus- 
ceptible of  them.  That  all  these  contingencies 
should  unite  to  his  disadvantage  seems  to  me  al- 


DOOK    OF    PROSE.  125 

most  as  singularly  unlucky,  as  tliat  so  many  vari- 
ous  (nay,  contrary)  talents  should  meet  in  one 
man,  was  happy  and  extraordinary.  Pope. 


When  the  hand  of  time  shall  have  brushed  off 
his  editors  and  commentators,  and  when  the  very 
name  of  Voltaire,  and  even  the  memory  of  the 
languajTc  in  which  he  has  written,  shall  be  no 
more,  the  Apalaehian  mountains,  the  banks  of  the 
Ohio,  and  the  jjlains  of  Sciota  shall  resound  with 
the  accents  of  this  barbarian  :  in  his  native  tongue 
he  shall  roll  the  genuine  passions  of  nature ;  nor 
shall  the  griefs  of  Lear  be  alleviated,  or  the  charms 
and  wit  of  Rosalind  be  abated  by  time.  There  is 
indeed  nothing  perishable  about  him,  except  that 
very  learning  which  he  is  said  so  much  to  want. 
He  had  not,  it  is  true,  enough  for  the  demands  of 
tlie  age  in  which  he  lived,  but  he  had  perhaps  too 
much  for  the  reach  of  his  genius,  and  the  interest 
of  his  fame.  Milton  and  he  will  carry  the  decayed 
remnants  and  fripperies  of  ancient  mythology  into 
more  distant  ages  than  they  are  by  their  own 
force  entitled  to  extend  to  ;  and  the  Metamorphoses 
of  Ovid,  upheld  by  them,  lay  in  a  new  claim  to 
unmerited  immortality. 

Shakspeare  is  a  name  so  interesting,  that  it  is 
excusable  to  stop  a  moment,  nay,  it  would  be  in- 
decent to  pass  him  without  the  tribute  of  some 
admiration.  He  differs  essentially  from  all  other 
writers  :  him  we  may  profess  rather  to  feel  than 
to  understand ;  and  it  is  safer  to  say,  on  many  oc- 
casions, that  wc  are  possessed  by  him,  than  that 
we  possess  him  :  and  no  wonder  ; — he  scatters  the 
seeds  of  things,  the  principles  of  character  and  ac- 
tion, with  so  cunning  a  hand,  and  yet  with  so 


126  YOUNG  lady's 

careless  an  air,  and,  master  of  our  feelings,  submits 
himself  so  little  to  our  jud^^nicnt,  that  every  thing 
seems  superior.  We  discern  not  his  course,  we 
see  no  connexion  of  cause  and  effect ;  we  are 
wrapt  in  ignorant  admiration,  and  claim  no  kin- 
dred with  his  abilities.  All  the  incidents,  all  the 
parts,  look  like  chance,  whilst  we  feel  and  are 
sensible  that  the  whole  is  design.  His  characters 
not  only  act  in  strict  conformity  to  nature,  but  in 
strict  relation  to  us ;  just  so  much  is  shown  as  is 
requisite ;  just  so  much  is  impressed ;  he  com- 
mands every  passage  to  our  heads  and  to  our 
hearts,  and  moulds  us  as  he  pleases,  and  that  with 
so  much  ease,  that  he  never  betrays  his  own  exer- 
tions. We  see  these  characters  act  from  the  min-_ 
gled  motives  of  passion,  reason,  interest,  habit,  and 
complexion,  in  all  their  proportions,  when  they  are 
supposed  to  know  it  not  themselves ;  and  we  are 
made  to  acknowledge  that  their  actions  and  senti- 
ments are,  from  these  motives,  the  necessary  result. 
He  at  once  blends  and  distinguishes  every  thing  ; 
•^vcry  thing  is  complicated,  every  thing  is  plajii. 
I  restrain  the  further  expressions  of  my  admira- 
tion, lest  they  should  not  seem  applicable  to  man  ; 
but  it  is  really  astonishing  that  a  mere  human 
being,  a  part  of  humanity  only,  should  so  perfectly 
comprehend  the  whole ;  and  that  he  should  possess 
such  exquisite  art,  that  whilst  every  child  shall 
feel  the  whole  effect,  his  learned  editors  and  com- 
mentators should  yet  so  very  frequently  mistake 
or  seem  ignorant  of  the  cause.  A  sceptre  or  a 
straw  are  in  his  hands  of  equal  efficacy ;  he  needs 
no  selection ;  he  converts  every  thing  into  excel- 
lence ;  nothing  is  too  great,  nothing  is  too  base. 
Is  a  character  efficient  like  Richard,  it  is  every 
thing  we  can  wish :  is  it  otherwise,  like  Hamlet, 
t 


BOOK    OF    PROSE  127 

it  is  productive  of  equal  admiration ;  action  pro- 
duces one  mode  of  excellence  and  inaction  another: 
the  chronicle,  the  novel,  or  the  ballad ;  the  king  or 
the  beggar,  the  hero  or  the  madman,  tlie  sot  or  the 
fool ;  it  is  all  one ; — nothing  is  worse,  nothing  is 
better.  The  same  genius  pervades  and  is  equally 
admirable  in  all.  Or,  is  a  character  to  be  shown 
in  progressive  change,  and  the  events  of  years 
comprised  within  the  hour, — with  what  a  magic 
hand  does  he  prepare  and  scatter  his  spells !  The 
understanding  must,  in  the  first  place,  be  subdued; 
and  lo !  hov/  the  rooted  prejudices  of  the  child 
spring  up  to  confound  the  man !  The  weird  sisters 
rise,  and  order  is  extinguished.  The  laws  of  naf- 
ture  give  way,  and  leave  nothing  in  our  minds  but 
wildness  and  horror.  No  pause  is  allowed  us  for 
reflection :  horrid  sentiment,  furious  guilt  and 
compunction,  air-drawn  daggers,  murders,  ghosts, 
and  enchantment  shake  and  possess  us  wholly.  In 
the  mean  time  the  process  is  completed.  Macbeth 
changes  under  our  eye,  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness  is  converted  into  gall ;  he  has  supped  full  of 
horrors,  and  his  May  of  life  is  fallen  into  the  sere, 
the  3'ellow  leaf;  whilst  we,  the  fools  of  amazement, 
are  insensible  to  the  shifting  of  place  and  the  lapse 
of  time,  and  till  the  curtain  drops  never  once  wake 
to  the  truth  of  things,  or  recognise  the  laws  of 
existence. — On  such  an  occasion,  a  fellow  like 
Rymer,  waking  from  his  trance,  shall  lift  up  his 
constable's  staff,  and  charge  this  great  magician, 
this  daring  practiser  of  arts  prohibited,  in  the  name 
of  Aristotle  to  surrender;  whilst  Aristotle  himself, 
disowning  liis  wretched  oflicer,  would  fall  prostrate 
at  his  feet  and  acluiowledge  his  supremacy. 

M0BQ.« 


128  YOUNG    lady's 


THE  TALKING  LADY. 

Ben  Jonson  has  a  play  called  The  Silent  Woman, 
who  turns  out,  as  might  be  expected,  to  be  no  wo- 
man at  all — nothing,  as  Master  Slender  said,  but 
"  a  great  lubberly  boy  ;"  thereby,  as  I  appreJiend, 
discourteously  presuming  that  a  silent  woman  is  a 
non-entity.  If  the  learned  dramatist,  thus  happily 
prepared  and  predisposed,  had  happened  to  fall  in 
vvitJi  such  a  specimen  of  female  loquacity  as  I  have 
just  parted  with,  he  might  perhaps  have  given  us 
a  pendant  to  his  picture  in  the  Talking  Lady. 
Pity  but  he  had  !  He  would  have  done  her  justice, 
which  I  could  not  at  any  time,  least  of  all  now :  I 
am  too  much  stunned ;  too  much  like  one  escaped 
from  a  belfry  on  a  coronation  day.  I  am  just 
resting  from  the  fatigue  of  four  days'  hard  listen- 
ing; four  snowy,  sleety,  rainy  days  —  days  of 
every  variety  of  falling  weather,  all  of  them  too 
bad  to  admit  the  possibility  that  any  petticoated 
tiling,  were  she  as  hardy  as  a  Scotch  fir,  should 
stir  out, — four  days  chained  by  "  sad  civility"  to 
tliat  fire-side,  once  so  quiet,  and  again — cheering 
thought  I  again  I  trust  to  be  so,  when  the  echo 
of  that  visitor's  incessant  tongue  shall  have  died 
away. 

Tiie  visitor  in  question  is  a  very  excUcnt  and 
respectable  elderly  lady,  upright  in  mind  and  body, 
with  a  figure  that  does  honour  to  her  dancing- 
niaster,  a  face  exceedingly  well  preserved,  wrinkled 
and  freckled,  but  still  fair,  and  an  air  of  gentiUty 
over  her  whole  person,  wliich  is  not  the  least  af- 
fected by  her  out-of-fashion  garb.  She  could  never 
be  taken  for  any  tiling  but  a  woman  of  family,  and 
perhaps  she  could  as  little  pass  for  any  other  than 


BOOK   OF    PROSE.  129 

an  old  maid.  She  took  us  in  licr  \v:iy  from  lion- 
don  to  tlic  west  of  England :  and  beiiig-,  as  slit; 
wrote,  "  not  quite  well,  not  equal  to  mucli  com- 
pany, prayed  that  no  otlier  guest  might  be  admit- 
ted,  so  that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  our  con- 
versation all  to  herself," — {Ours !  as  if  it  wenj 
possible  for  any  of  us  to  slide  in  a  word  edgewise !) 
— "  and  especially  enjoy  the  gratification  of  talk- 
ing over  old  times  with  the  master  of  the  house, 
her  countryman."  Such  was  the  promise  of  her 
letter,  and  to  the  letter  it  has  been  kept.  All  the 
news  and  scandal  of  a  large  county  forty  years 
ago,  and  a  hundred  years  before,  and  ever  since, 
all  the  marriages,  deatlis,  births,  elopements,  law- 
suits, and  casualties  of  her  own  times,  her  father's, 
grandfather's,  great-grandfather's,  nephew's,  ajid 
grand-nepliew's,  has  she  detailed  witli  a  minute- 
ness, an  accuracy,  a  prodigality  of  learning,  a  pro- 
fuscness  of  proper  names,"  a  pedantry  of  locality, 
which  would  excite  the  cnv}'  of  a  county  historian, 
a  king-at-arms,  or  even  a  Scotch  novelist.  Pier 
knowledge  is  astonishing  ;  but  the  most  astonish- 
ing part  of  all  is  how  she  came  by  that  knowledge. 
It  should  seem,  to  listen  to  h.cr,  as  if,  at  some  time 
of  her  life,  she  must  have  listened  herself;  and  yet 
her  countryman  declares,  that  in  the  forty  years 
he  has  known  her,  no  such  event  has  occurred ; 
and  she  knows  new  news  too  I  It  nmst  be  intui- 
tion. 

The  manner  of  her  speech  has  little  remarkable. 
It  is  rath(!r  old-fashioned  and  provincial,  but  per- 
fectly lady-like,  lov/  and  gentle,  and  not  seeming 
so  fast  as  it  is ;  like  the  great  pedestrians,  she 
clears  her  ground  easily,  and  never  seems  to  use 
any  exertion ;  yet  "  I  would  my  horse  had  the 
speed  of  her  tongue,  and  go  good  a  continuer." 

y 


130  vou.NG  lady's 

She  will  talk  you  sixteen  liours  a  day  f^)r  twenty 
days  tofjethcr,  and  not  deduct  one  poor  five  min- 
utes for  lialts  and  baiting-  time.  Talking,  sheer 
talking,  is  meat  and  drink  and  sleep  to  her.  She 
likes  notliing  else.  Eating  is  a  sad  interruption. 
For  the  tea-table  she  has  some  toleration ;  but 
dinner,  witii  its  clatter  of  plates  and  jingle  of 
knives  and  forks,  dinner  is  her  abhorrenee.  Nor 
are  the  other  eommon  })arsuits  of  life  more  in  her 
favour.  Walking  exhausts  the  breath  that  inight 
be  better  employed.  Daneing  is  a  noisy  diversion, 
and  singing  is  worse ;  she  eannot  endure  any 
musie,  execpt  the  long,  grand,  dull  concerto,  which 
nobody  thinks  of  listening  to.  Reading-  and  chess 
she  classes  together  as  silent  barbarisms,  unworthy 
of  a  social  and  civilized  people.  Cards,  too,  have 
their  faults ;  there  is  a  rivalry,  a  mute  eloquence 
in  those  four  aces,  tliat  leads  av.-ay  t!ie  attention ; 
besides,  partners  will  sometimes  scold ;  so  she 
never  plays  at  cards ;  and  U[)on  the  strength  of 
tliis  abstinence  had  very  nearly  passed  for  serious^ 
till  it  was  discovered  that  she  could  not  abide  a 
long  sermon.  She  always  looks  out  for  tlie  short- 
est  preacher,  and  never  went  to  above  one  Bible 
meeting  in  her  life. — "  Such  speeches  I"  quoth  she, 
"  I  thought  the  men  never  meant  to  have  done. 
People  have  great  need  of  patience."  Plays,  of 
course,  she  abhors,  and  operas,  and  mobs,  and  all 
things  that  will  be  heard,  especially  children ; 
though  for  babies,  particularly  when  asleep,  for 
dogs  and  pictures,  and  such  silent  intelligences  as 
serve  to  talk  of  and  talk  to,  she  has  a  considerable 
partiality ;  and  an  agreeable  and  gracious  flattery 
to  the  mammas  and  other  owners  of  these  pretty 
dumb  things  is  a  very  usual  introduction  to  her 
miscellaneous  harangues.      The  rhatter  of  these 


BOOK    OF   PHOSE.  131 

orations  is  inconceivably  various.  Pcrhajis  the 
local  and  g-enealogical  anecdotes,  the  sort  of  sup- 
plement to  the  history  of shire,  may  be  her 

strong-est  point;  but  she  shines  almost  as  much  in 
medicine  and  housewifery.  Her  medical  disserta- 
tions savour  a  little  of  that  particular  branch  of 
the  science  called  quackery.  She  has  a  specific 
against  almost  every  disease  to  which  the  human 
frame  is  liable ;  and  is  terribly  prosy  and  unmer- 
ciful in  her  symptoms.  Her  cures  kill.  In  house- 
keeping,  her  notions  resemble  those  of  other  verbal 
managers ;  full  of  economy  and  retrenchment, 
with  a  leaning  towards  reform,  though  she  loves 
so  well  to  declaim  on  the  abuses  in  the  cook's  de- 
partment, that  I  am  not  sure  that  she  would  very 
heartily  thank  any  radical  who  should  sweep  them 
quite  aw^ay.  For  the  rest,  her  system  sounds  very 
finely  in  theory,  but  rather  fails  in  practice.  Her 
recipes  would  be  capital,  only  that  some  way  or 
other  they  do  not  eat  well ;  her  preserves  seldom 
keep ;  and  her  sweet  wines  arc  sure  to  turn  sour. 
These  are  certainly  her  favourite  topics ;  but  any 
one  will  do.  Allude  to  some  anecdote  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  she  forthwith  treats  you  with  as 
many  i)arallel  passages  as  arc  to  be  found  in  an 
air  with  variations.  Take  up  a  new  publication, 
and  she  is  equally  at  home  there ;  for  though  she 
knows  little  of  books,  she  has,  in  the  course  of  an 
up-and-down  life,  met  W'ith  a  good  many  authors, 
and  teazos  and  provokes  you  by  telling  of  them 
precisely  what  you  do  not  care  to  hear,  the  maiden 
names  of  their  wives,  and  the  christian  names  of 
tlieir  daughters,  and  into  what  families  their  sisters 
and  cousins  married,  and  in  what  towns  they  have 
lived,  what  streets,  and  what  numbers.  Boswell 
himself  never  drew  up  the  table  of  Dr.  Johnson's 


132  YOUNG    lady's 

Floet-street  courts  with  greater  care,  than  she 
made  out  to  me  the  successive  residences  of  P.  P. 
Esq.  author  of  a  tract  on  the  French  Revolution, 
and  a  pamphlet  on  the  Poor  Laws.  Tiie  very- 
weather  is  not  a  safe  subject.  Her  memory  is  a 
perpetual  rcj^ister  of  hard  frosts,  and  long  droughts, 
and  high  winds,  and  terrible  storms,  with  all  the 
evils  that  followed  in  their  train,  and  all  the  per- 
sonal events  connected  with  them,  so  that  if  you 
happen  to  remark  that  clouds  are  come  up,  and 
you  fear  it  may  rain,  she  replies,  "  Ay,  it  is  just 
such  a  morning  as  three-and-thirty  years  ago, 
when  my  poor  cousin  was  married — you  remem- 
ber my  cousin  Barbara — she  married  so  and  so, 
tJie  son  of  so  and  so ;"  and  then  comes  the  whole 
pedigree  of  the  bridegroom ;  the  amount  of  the 
flettlements,  and  the  reading  and  signing  them 
over  night ;  a  description  of  the  wedding-dresses, 
in  the  style  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and  how 
much  the  bride's  gown  cost  per  yard  ;  the  names, 
residences,  and  a  short  subsequent  history  of  tho 
bridemaids  and  men,  the  gentleman  who  gave  the 
bride  away,  and  the  clergyman  Vv'ho  performed  the 
ceremony,  with  a  learned  antiquarian  digression 
relative  to  tlie  church ;  then  the  setting  out  in 
procession ;  the  marriage ;  the  kissing ;  the  cry- 
ing ;  the  breakfasting ;  the  drawing  the  cake 
through  the  ring;  and  finally,  the  bridal  excur- 
sion, which  brings  us  back  again  at  an  hour's  end 
to  the  startmg-post,  the  weather,  and  the  whole 
story  of  the  sopping,  the  drying,  the  clothes-spoil- 
ing, the  cold-catching,  and  all  the  small  evils  of  a 
summer  shower.  By  this  time  it  rains,  and  she 
sits  down  to  a  pathetic  sec-saw  of  conjectures  on 
the  chance  of  Mrs.  Siiilth's  having  set  out  for  her 
daily  walk,  or  the  possibility  that  Dr.  Brown  may 


BOOK   OF    PROSK.  133 

have  ventured  to  visit  his  patients  in  liis  gi^,  ai;d 
tlie  certainty  that  Lady  Green's  new  Jiousemaid 
would  coinc  from  London  on  the  outside  of  tho 
coach. 

With  all  this  intolerable  prosing-,  she  is  actually 
reckoned  a  pleasant  woman  I  Her  acquaintance  in 
the  great  manuihcturing  town  wlicre  she  usually 
resides  is  very  large,  which  may  partly  account 
for  the  misnomer.  Her  conversation  is  of  a  sort 
to  bear  dividing.  Besides,  there  is,  in  all  largo 
societies,  an  instinctive  sympathy  which  directs 
cacli  individual  to  the  companion  most  congenial 
to  his  luimour.  Doubtless,  her  associates  deserve 
the  old  French  compliment,  "  lis  onl  tous  un  grand 
talent  pour  le  silence.''''  Parcelled  out  amongst 
some  seventy  or  eighty,  there  may  even  be  some 
savour  in  her  talk.  It  is  the  tcte-d-iete  that  kills, 
or  the  small  fire-side  circle  of  three  or  four,  wher« 
only  one  can  speak,  and  all  the  rest  must  seem  to 
listen — seein  !  did  I  say? — must  listen  in  good 
earnest.  Hotspur's  expedient  in  a  similar  situa- 
tion of  crying  "  Hem  !  Go  to,"  and  marking  not  a 
word,  will  not  do  here ;  compared  to  her,  Owen 
Glendower  was  no  conjuror.  She  has  tlie  eye  of 
a  hawk,  and  detects  a  wandering  glance,  an  in- 
cipient yawn,  the  slightest  movement  of  impa- 
tiencc.  The  very  needle  must  be  quiet.  If  a  pair 
of  scissors  do  but  wag,  she  is  affronted,  draws  her- 
self up,  breaks  off  in  the  middle  of  a  story,  of  a 
sentence,  of  a  word,  and  the  unlucky  culprit  must, 
for  civiUty's  sake,  sunnnon  a  more  than  Spartan 
fortitude,  and  beg  the  torturer  to  resume  her  tor- 
ments— "  That,  that  is  the  unkindcst  cut  of  all !" 
I  wonder,  if  she  had  happened  to  have  married, 
how  many  husbands  siie  would  have  tallced  to 
death.     It  is  certain  that  none  of  her  relations  arc 


134  YOUNG  lady's 

Iniiirlivcd  after  she  comes  to  reside  with  them. 
Father,  motiier,  uncle,  sister,  brother,  two  nephews, 
and  one  niece,  all  these  have  successively  passed 
away,  though  a  healthy  race,  and  Avith  no  visible 
disorder — except but  we  must  not  be  unchari- 
table. They  niig-ht  have  died,  though  she  had  been 
born  dumb:  —  "It  is  an  accident  that  happens 
every  day."  Since  the  disease  of  her  last  nephew, 
she  attempted  to  form  an  establishment  with  a 
widow  lady,  for  the  sake,  as  they  both  said,  of  the 
comfort  of  society.  But — strange  miscalculation  I 
she  was  a  talker  too  1  They  parted  in  a  week. 

And  we  have  also  parted.  1  am  just  leturning 
from  escorting  her  to  the  coach,  which  is  to  con- 
vey her  two  Imndred  miles  westward ;  and  I  have 
still  the  murmur  of  her  adieux  resounding  in  my 
ears,  like  the  indistinct  hum  of  the  air  on  a  frosty 
night.  It  was  curious  to  see  how,  almost  simul- 
taneously, tliese  mournful  adieux  sliaded  into 
cheerful  salutations  of  her  new  comrades,  the  pas- 
sengers in  the  mail.  Poor  souls !  Little  does  the 
civil  young  lad  who  made  way  for  her,  or  the  fat 
lady,  his  mamma,  who  with  pains  and  inconvenience 
made  room  for  her,  or  the  grumpy  gentleman  in 
the  opposite  corner,  who,  after  some  dispute,  was 

at  length  won  to  admit  her  dressing-box, little 

do  they  suspect  what  is  to  befall,  them.  Two  hmi- 
dred  miles !  and  she  never  sleeps  in  a  carriage  I 
Well,  patience  be  with  them,  and  comfort  and 
peace  !  A  pleasant  journey  to  them  !  And  to  her 
all  happiness  I  She  is  a  most  kind  and  excellent 
person,  one  for  whom  I  would  do  any  thing  in  my 
poor  power — ay,  even  were  it  to  listen  to  her  an- 
other four  days. 

Miss  MiTFORD. 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  193 


MODERiV  ROME. 


Among  the  odd  traits  ob.servable  in  the  Roman 
[wpulation,  is  tlicir  aversion  to  two  luxuries,  espe- 
cially esteemed  in  more  northern  countries,  and 
thoug-h  somewhat  matters  of  taste,  not  altogether 
unallied  to  a  higher  sentiment ;  these  are  flowers 
and  fire.  The  latter,  during  winter,  is  as  truly 
physically  requisite  as  in  colder  climates ;  but  lesst 
surprise  should  be  excited  by  tliis  antipathy  among 
a  people  whose  idea  of  comfort  is  so  widely  differ- 
ent from  our  own,  and  to  whom  this  cheerful  in- 
fluence brings  with  it  none  of  the  domestic  asso- 
ciations which  endear  it  to  the  denizens  of  bleaker 
localities,  and  the  possessors  of  a  better  founded 
enthusiasm.  The  former  distaste  is  more  remark- 
able, when  we  consider  the  proverbial  predilections 
of  the  Italians  for  the  beautiful ;  and  yet  it  is  to  a 
surprising  extent  true,  that  most  are  indifferent 
and  many  decidedly  averse  to  flowers ;  whereas, 
in  Florence,  we  were  ever  beset  with  flower-girls, 
and  tliC  Neapolitan  peasants  are  seldom  seen  with- 
out a  nosegay.  I  have  heard  this  peculiarity  of  the 
Romans  ascribed  to  their  very  delicate  sense  of 
smell,  which  renders  even  a  mild  perfume  quite 
overpowering  ;  but  it  is  dilBcult  to  admit  a  reason 
which  is  so  inconsistent  with  their  habitual  tole- 
ration of  far  less  geni;il  odours,  particularly  the 
unwholesome  exhalations  from  the  buried  aque- 
ducts and  infected  campagna. 

Although  the  period  of  my  sojourn  was  con 
sidered,  in  some  respects,  an  uncommon  season, 
yet  the  excellence  of  the  climate  of  Rome,  accord- 
ing to  my  best  information  and  experience,  ha.s 
been  sadly  exaggerated.     During  winter,  a  soutli 


13fi  YOING    lady's 

orly  wind,  with  the  usual  accompnniment  of  rain 
or  humidity,  or  a  dry  picrcin^^  northerly  blast,  g-cnc- 
rally  prevail.  The  brig^ht  suiinncr-like  days,  when 
the  deep  azure  of  the  sky  and  the  balmy  soilness  of 
ihc  breezes  recall  our  cherished  imagininj^s  of 
Rome,  arc  too  unfrequent,  at  least  to  please  the. 
invalid.  Yet  one  of  those  beautiful  interludes  in 
the  capricious  shiflings  of  the  weather  is,  if  freely 
enjoyed,  unspeakably  renovating-.  A  promenade 
upon  the  Pincian  hill  or  in  the  Villa  Borgehcsp,  or 
an  excursion  to  Tivoli,  at  such  a  time,  inclines 
6ne  to  forgive  and  forget  all  the  past  waywardness 
of  the  elements.  In  summer,  that  awful  vapoury 
infection,  the  malaria,  and  the  extreme  heat,  are 
alike  deleterious.  It  is  very  confidently  asserted 
by  individuals  who  judge  from  experience,  that  a 
vast  change  has  occurred  in  the  climate  of  Rome 
witliin  the  last  thirty  years,  and  that,  even  within 
a  less  period,  a  marked  difference,  as  regards  con- 
stancy and  mildness,  is  observable. 

The  supremacy  of  the  pope  and  his  cardinals, 
denominated  the  sacred  college,  being  all  but  abso- 
lute, the  risk  incurred  by  such  a  sway  renders  the 
government  extremely  tenacious  and  jealous,  so  that 
of  all  culprits  of  whom  the  law  takes  cognizance, 
none  are  at  once  more  frequently  or  less  deservedly 
its  victims  than  political  offenders.  But  the  chief 
evil  immediately  resulting  from  this  condition  of 
things,  consists  in  the  concessions  which  the  rulers 
make  to  the  ruled,  in  order  to  maintain  their  au- 
thority. IMany  of  these  involve  the  total  subversion 
of  the  very  principles  wliich  government  is  mainly 
instituted  to  maintain.  Capital  crime,  for  exam- 
ple, is  of  all  oflences  the  least  liable  to  retribution 
by  the  operation  of  law  in  the  Roman  stales.  And 
such  is  tlie  sanguinary  temperament  of  most  of  the 
people,  that  any  severe  civil  check  upon  it  would 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  l37 

inflame  opposition,  and  hence  render  tlicir  politinaJ 
yoke  more  galling.  Of  the  two  evils,  therefore,  as 
might  be  anticipated,  government  choo;-e  that  which 
is  morally  greatest,  and  politically  least.  Conse- 
quently, the  number  of  personal  violences  and  mur- 
ders is  almost  incredible.  An  incarceration  of  a 
lew  months  for  this  highest  of  crimes,  is  often  thi; 
sole  punishment;  and  even  this  is  dispensed  with, 
if  the  ollcndcr  can  effect  a  pecuniary  compromise 
with  the  relations  of  the  deceased.  Within  a  short 
period,  the  fourth  nmrder,  under  the  most  atrocious 
circumstances,  alone  sufficed  to  bring  a  noted  cul- 
prit to  the  gallows. 

The  present  pope,  it  is  believed,  in  executing 
plans  for  the  advancement  of  his  own  views,  is 
gradually  undermining  one  of  the  strong-holds  of 
his  power.  The  re-erection  of  St.  Paul's  church, 
in  the  environs  of  Rome,  in  a  costly  style,  and  the 
creation  of  five  new  cardinals,  both  measures  in 
every  respect  unnecessary,  arc  among  the  extrava- 
gant plans  with  which  he  is  charged.  The  means 
of  carrying  on  these  is  obtained  from  extensive 
loans,  for  tlie  payment  of  which  his  most  valuable 
revenues  are  pledged,  and  year  after  year,  these 
are  sacrificed  to  his  inability  to  meet  the  annual 
demand.  I  have  heard  it  confidently  estimated, 
that,  adopting  the  past  as  a  criterion,  in  the  space 
of  thirteen  years  the  resources  of  the  government 
will  be  absorbed;  and  if  the  ability  of  the  governed 
to  support  taxation,  at  that  juncture,  is  not  better 
than  at  present,  there  is  no  conceivable  means  of 
furnishing  an  ridequate  supply  to  sustain  the  papal 
credit*     But  it  is    highly  i)iobablc  that   another 

*  Tosti.  the  present  treasurer-t?encrnl,  is  said  to  huve  adminis- 
tered the  financial  department  so  succc-^fully  as  to  have  met  tlie 
annual  exifiencies,  made  up  the  deficit  of  the  past  year,  and  re 
tained  a  surplus. 


138  YOUNG  lady's 

and  more  rapid  ag-cncy  than  the  slow  depreciation 
of  the  treasury  will,  ere  then,  have  permanently 
altered  the  political  condition  not  only  of  Rome, 
but  of  all  Italy. 

The  degeneracy  of  modern  Rome  is  a  subject 
ever  forced  upon  the  thoughtful  resident,  whenever 
his  mind  is  free  to  revert  to  the  local  and  moral 
circumstances  by  which  he  is  surrounded.  And 
to  one  who  is  in  anywise  familiar  with  her  past 
history  or  susceptible  to  her  present  influences,  it 
becomes  an  almost  absorbing  theme.  Vainly,  at 
times,  do  the  glories  of  the  Vatican  allure  him ; 
tlieir  delightful  enchantments  fade  before  a  more 
impressive  reality.  He  cannot  rejoice  unreservedly 
in  the  splendours  of  human  art,  when  humanity  is 
a  wreck  around  him;  he  cannot  indulge  in  stirring 
retrospection  over  the  sculptured  figure  of  an  old 
Roman,  when  it  serves  but  to  render  more  promi- 
nent tlie  moral  deformity  of  his  descendant.  And  if 
a  gleam  of  native  enthusiasm  excite  him,  caught 
from  scenes  which  the  supremacy  of  character  has 
hallowed,  or  a  sentiment  of  rich  gratification  steals 
over  him  from  the  midst  of  material  beauty,  the 
idea  wliich  he  most  loves  to  connect  with  these — 
the  idea  of  his  race  brings  with  it  an  overpowering 
sadness.  Throughout  all  that  art  or  antiquity  here 
unfolds,  he  feels  as  if  wandering  in  a  beautiful  gar- 
den, once  blest  with  a  presence  which  shall  know 
it  no  more.  He  feels,  in  his  inmost  soul,  that  it 
was  this  non-existent  object  of  his  love  which  lent 
an  hitherto  unknown  interest  to  the  marble  and 
canvas,  to  mount  and  river ;  and  while  ever  and 
anon  their  silent  beauty  affords  a  sad  pleasure,  they 
oflener  serve  but  to  remind  him  of  the  grave  which 
has  closed  over  the  l)eloved  of  his  memory. 

Yet   he   gradually   derives   consolation,  w^hich 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  139 

sometimes  brig-htens  into  happiness,  in  attaching' 
himself  to  sucli  mementoes  ;  and  Aviicn  tliey  recall 
most  stron<rly  what  has  been,  tlie  thought  of  what 
may  yet  be,  hrinjofs  home  an  exquisite  and  almost  for- 
gotten delight.  Wliile  melancholy  even  imparts  its 
sad  hue  to  the  moral  observer  of  Rome's  rehcs  and 
ruins,  something  of  hope,  of  instinctive  anticipa- 
tion, bears  out  the  mental  gratification  which  ever 
Jiows  from  them. 

Italian  Sketch  Book. 


THE  VATICAN. 

We  crossed  the  Tiber  in  a  broad  barge,  and 
during  the  few  moments  which  intervened  ere  our 
walk  recommenced,  we  were  naturally  led  to  con- 
trast the  turbid  waters  and  the  dim  earth  around 
us,  with  the  same  scene,  in  its  transcendent  aspect, 
as  existing  in  the  familiar  picture  of  our  fancy. 
The  one  was  the  plain  appearance  of  neglected 
and  perhaps  degenerate  nature ;  the  other,  impres- 
sions derived  I'rom  nature's  glowing  commentator, 
the  poet.  Passing  by  a  retired  path  through  the 
fields,  we  soon  came  in  view  of  a  circular  fortress, 
(the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,)  now  chiefly  used  as  a 
prison,  but  originally  the  tomb  of  Hadrian.  And 
certainly,  when  its  solid  proportions  were  decked 
with  the  numerous  statuary  ornaments  which  once 
adorned  them,  it  must  have  formed  a  glorious  final 
resting-place  for  a  Roman.  There  is  a  striking  and 
melancholy  inconsistency  observable  in  this,  as  in 
many  instances,  in  the  modern  appropriation  of 
ancient  monuments.  So  much  more  honourable 
is  it  to  the  general,  or  at  least  to  the  better  senti- 


140  YOUNG    lady's 

rncnt  of  rmnkind,  to  leave  unmarred  the  few  rem- 
nants of  a  nation's  ^Tcatncss,  when  not  one  of  her 
children  exists.  There  is  surely  a  kind  of  sacrilege 
in  disturbing-  works  consecrated  to  the  dead,  for  pur- 
poses of  selfish  pride  or  narrow  utility.  The  beauty, 
the  interest,  the  blessed  inspiration  which  so  often 
liallow  these  ruins,  are  thus  invaded,  while  no 
commensurate  advantage  is  obtained.  Have  not  as 
many  smiles  of  ridicule  or  sneers  of  reproach,  as 
pious  feelings,  been  awakened,  by  the  view  of  the 
apostles'  figures  surmounting  the  triumphal  pillars 
of  Aurelius  and  Trajan  ?  And  who  can  behold, 
without  regret,  the  mausoleum  of  the  mighty  dead 
transformed  into  a  tomb  for  the  most  wretched  of 
tlie  living  ? 

We  ascended  a  long  flight  of  steps,  entered  a 
square  and  corridor,  and  were  soon  in  the  Museum 
of  the  Vatican.  It  were  vain  to  endeavour  to  de- 
scribe what  an  impression  of  the  richness  of  art  is 
inspired  by  the  first  general  inspection  of  this  vast 
collection  of  her  redeemed  trophies  ;  and  far  more 
to  paint  the  vivid  and  elevating  conception  of  her 
power  which  dawns,  brightens,  and  finally  glows 
in  the  bosom,  as  face  after  face  of  thrilling  interest, 
figure  after  figure  of  embodied  nature,  and  gem 
after  gem  of  exquisite  material  or  workmanship 
attracts  the  admiring  eye ;  all  unanimated  by  one 
spiritual  principle,  and  yet  so  legitimately  the  off- 
spring of  the  highest,  and  so  perfectly  significant, 
as  to  awaken  wonder,  enkindle  delight,  and  finally 
win  love.  We  devoted  a  season  to  tlie  inspection 
and  admiration  of  the  time-worn  frescoes,  which 
exist  upon  the  walls  of  the  Camere  of  Raphael, 
Constantino's  victory  is,  indeed,  a  splendid  battle- 
piece.  But  of  all  the  figures,  none  struck  me  as 
grander  than  the  group  representing  the  miracu- 


I 


nooK  OF  riiosE.  141 

lous  defeat  of  the  rava^^or  of  the  temple,  struck 
down  by  a  cavalier,  and  two  ang'els,  at  the  prayer 
of  the  priest.  Most  of  the  countenances  acre  de- 
picted arc  separate  and  noble  studies.  All  the  fres- 
coes were  })artially  designed  and  executed  by  Ra- 
phael. They  present  a  worthy  but  melancholy 
monument  to  his  j^enius,  impaired  as  they  arc  by 
age,  and  marred  l»y  his  untimely  death.  Yet  art- 
ists of  the  present  day  arc  continually  studying 
these  dim,  though  most  admirable  remains,  and 
tind  in  their  contemplation  the  happiest  aids  and 
incitements.  Notwithstanding  this  speaking  testi- 
mony to  departed  excellence,  as  well  as  that  which 
beamed  in  the  admiring  looks  of  the  gazers  around, 
there  was  sometliing  of  sadness  in  flic  very  air  of 
rooms  that  bore  the  name,  and  shone  with  the  em- 
bodied talent  of  the  beloved  and  early  dead,  which 
forced  itself  irresistibly  upon  the  mind,  and  tinged 
with  mournfulness  the  gratilied  thoughts. 

But  it  is  when  we  stand  for  the  first  time  in  the 
presence  of  that  being,  if  aught  destitute  of  sensa- 
tion deserve  the  name,  it  is  when  the  eye  first 
rests,  and  the  heart  first  fastens  with  instinctive 
eagerness  upon  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  that  we  feel 
tlie  triumph  of  human  art.  And  there  springs  up 
a  rich  sentiment  of  satisfaction,  not  only  that  the 
poetical  in  native  feeling,  the  pure  in  taste,  and  tho 
exalted  in  thought  are  conscious  of  unwonted  grati- 
fication, but  because  we  rejoice  in  the  spiritual 
nobility  of  our  common  nature ;  we  glory  in  tho 
thought  that  the  senseless  marble  radiates  the  beau- 
tiful and  deep  expressivenes.^  of  intellectual  life  .it 
tlie  call  of  human  genius,  and  we  are  soothed  by 
the  testimony  thus  afforded  to  the  immortality  of 
what  wc  most  love  in  ourselves  and  kind  ;  for  we 
feel  that  such  followers  of  nature  are  allied  to  .ts 


142  YOUNG  lady's 

author,  and  may  liumbly,  but  legitimately,  aspire 
to  yet  liighcr  teachings  than  arc  evolved  from  the 
physical  universe. 

Italian  Sketch  Book. 


LA  ROCHE. 

More  than  forty  years  ago,  an  English  philoso- 
phcr,  whose  works  have  since  been  read  and  ad- 
mired  by  all  Europe,  resided  at  a  little  town  in 
France.  Some  disappointments  in  his  native 
country  had  first  driven  liim  abroad,  and  he  was 
afterwards  induced  to  remain  there,  from  having 
found  in  this  retreat,  where  the  connexions  even 
fif  nation  and  language  were  avoided,  a  perfect 
r^cclusion  and  retirement  highly  favourable  to  the 
development  of  abstract  subjects,  in  which  he  ex- 
o^;llcd  all  the  writers  of  his  time. 

Perhaps  in  the  structure  of  such  a  mind  as  Mr. 

's,  the  finer  and  more  delicate  sensibilities  are 

seldom  known  to  have  place  ;  or,  if  originally  im- 
planted there,  are  in  a  great  measure  extinguished 
by  the  exertions  of  intense  study  and  profound  in- 
vestigation. Hence  the  idea  of  philosophy  and 
unfeelingness  being  united,  has  become  proverbial, 
and  in  common  language  the  former  word  is  ofl;en 
used  to  express  the  latter. — Our  philosopher  had 
been  censured  by  some,  as  deficient  in  warmth 
and  feeling :  but  the  mildness  of  his  manners  has 
been  allowed  by  all ;  and  it  is  certain,  that  if  he 
was  not  easily  melted  into  compassion,  it  was,  at 
least,  not  difficult  to  awaken  his  benevolence. 

One  morning,  while  he  sat  busied  in  those  spec- 
ulations which  afterwards  astonished  the  world, 
an    old  female  domestic,  who  served  him  for   a 


BOOK   OF    PROSE.  143 

housekeeper,  brought  him  word,  that  an  elder- 
ly gentleman  and  his  daughter  had  arrived  in  the 
village,  tlie  preceding  evening,  on  their  w^ay  to 
some  distant  country,  and  that  the  father  had  been 
suddenly  seized  in  the  night  with  a  dangerous  dis- 
order,  which  the  people  of  the  inn  where  they 
lodged  feared  would  prove  mortal ;  that  slic  had 
been  sent  for,  as  having  some  knowledge  in  medi- 
cine, the  village  surgeon  being  then  absent ;  and 
tliat  it  was  truly  piteous  to  see  the  good  old  man, 
who  seemed  not  so  much  afflicted  by  his  own  dis- 
tress as  by  that  which  it  caused  to  his  daughter. — 
Her  master  laid  aside  the  volume  in  his  hand,  and 
broke  off  the  chain  of  ideas  it  had  inspired.  His 
night-gown  was  exchanged  for  a  coat,  and  he  fol- 
lowed his  gouvernante  to  the  sick  man's  apartmenL 
It  was  the  best  in  the  little  inn  where  they  lay, 

but  a  paltry  one  notwithstanding.     Mr. was 

obliged  to  stoop  as  he  entered  it.  It  was  floored 
with  earth,  and  above  were  the  joists  not  plastered, 
and  hung  with  cobwebs. — On  a  flock-bed,  at  one 
end,  lay  the  old  man  he  came  to  visit ;  at  the  foot 
of  it  sat  his  daughter.  She  was  dressed  in  a  clean 
white  bed-gown ;  her  dark  locks  hung  loosely  over 
it  as  she  bent  forward,  watching  the  languid  looks 

of  her  father,     Mr. and  his  housekeeper  had 

stood  some  moments  in  the  room  without  the  young 
lady's  being  sensible  of  their  entering  it. — "  Made- 
moiselle !"  said  the  old  woman  at  last,  in  a  soft 
tone.  She  turned  and  showed  one  of  the  finest 
faces  in  the  world.  It  was  touched,  not  spoiled 
with  sorrow  ;  and  when  she  perceived  a  stranger, 
whom  the  old  woman  now  introduced  to  her,  a 
blush  at  first,  and  then  the  gentle  ceremonial  of 
native  politeness,  which  the  afl^liction  of  the  time 
tempered,  but  did  not  extinguish,  crossed  it  for  a 


141  vouNG  lady's 

moment,  and  clianjrcd  its  expression.  It  was 
sweetness  all,  however,  nnd  our  philosopher  felt  it 
strongly.  It  was  not  a  time  for  words ;  lie  offered 
his  services  in  a  lew  pincerc  ones.  "  Monsieur 
!ies  miserably  ill  here,"  said  the  gouvernantc  ;  "  if 
iie  could  possibly  be  moved  anywhere  ?"  "  If  he 
could  be  moved  to  our  house,"  said  her  mas- 
l«;r.  He  jto.ssessed  a  spare  bed  for  a  friend,  and 
there  was  a  garret  unoccupied,  next  to  the  gouver- 
iiante's. — It  was  contrived  accordingly.  The  scru- 
ples of  the  stranger,  who  could  look  scruples, 
iJjougii  he  could  not  speak  them,  were  overcome, 
and  the  bashful  reluctance  of  his  daughter  gave 
way  to  her  belief  of  its  use  to  her  father.  The 
sick  man  was  wrapped  in  blankets,  and  carried 
licross  the  street  to  the  English  gentleman's.  The 
old  woman  helped  his  daughter  to  nurse  him  there. 
The  surgeon,  who  arrived  soon  after,  prescribed  a 
little,  and  nature  did  much  for  him ;  in  a  week  he 
was  able  to  thank  his  benefactor. 

By  that  time  his  host  had  learned  the  name  and 
cliaracter  of  his  guest.  He  was  a  protcstant  cler- 
gyman of  Switzerland,  called  La  Roche,  a  widow- 
er, who  had  lately  buried  his  wife,  after  a  long 
and  lingering  illness,  for  which  travelling  had 
been  prescribed,  and  was  now  returning  home, 
after  an  inefteetual  and  melancholy  journey,  with 
liis  only  child,  the  daughter  we  have  mentioned. 

He  was  a  devout  man,  as  became  his  profession- 
He  possessed  devotion  in  all  its  warmth,  but  with 
none  of  its  asperity  ;  I  mean  that  asperity  which 

men,  called  devout,  sometimes  indulge  in.  Mr. , 

thougli  he  felt  no  devotion,  never  quarrelled  with  it 
in  others. — His  gouvcrnante  joined  the  old  man 
and  his  daughter  in  the  prayers  and  thanksgivings 
which  they  put  up  on  liis  recovery  ;  for  she,  too, 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  145 

was  a  heretic,  in  the  phrase  of  the  village.  The 
philosopher  walked  out,  with  his  long-  stafY  and 
his  dog,  and  left  them  to  their  prayers  and  thanks- 
givings. "  My  master,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  alas  I 
he  is  not  a  Christian ;  but  he  is  the  best  of  unbe- 
lievers."— "  Not  a  Christian  I"  cxelaimed  made- 
moiselle IjH  Roche,  "  yet  he  saved  my  father  I 
Heaven  bless  him  lor  it ;  I  would  he  were  a  Chris- 
tian 1"  "  There  is  a  pride  in  human  knowledge, 
my  child,"  said  her  father,  "  which  often  blinds 
men  to  tlic  sublimer  truths  of  revelation ;  hence 
opposers  of  Christianity  are  found  among  men  of 
virtuous  lives,  as  well  as  among  those  of  dissipated 
and  licentious  characters.  Nay,  sometimes  I  have 
known  the  latter  more  easily  converted  to  the  true 
faith  than  the  former,  because  the  fume  of  passion 
is   more  easily  dissipated  than  the  mist  of  false 

tlieory  and  delusive  speculation." — "l?ut  Mr. ," 

said  his  daughter,  "  alas,  my  father,  he  shall  be  a 
Christian  belbre  he  dies."  She  was  interrupted  by 
the  arrival  of  their  landlord.  He  took  her  lian'd 
with  an  air  of  kindness  : — she  drew  it  away  from 
him  in  silence  ;  threw  down  her  eyes  to  the  ground, 
and  left  the  room. — "  I  have  been  thanking  God," 
said  the  good  La  Roche,  "  for  my  recovery." 
"  That  is  right,"  replied  his  landlord. — "  I  would 
not  wish,"  continued  tlie  old  man,  hesitatingly, 
"  to  think  otherwise ;  did  I  not  look  up  with  gra 
titudc  to  that  Being,  I  should  barely  be  satisfied 
with  my  recovery,  as  a  continuation  of  life,  which, 
it  may  be,  is  not  a  real  good.  Alas  I  I  may  live 
to  wish  I  had  died ;  that  you  had  left  me  to  die, 
sir,  instead  of  kindly  relieving  me  (he  clasped  Mr. 
's  hand ;) — but,  when  I  look  on  this  renova- 
ted being  as  the  gift  of  the  Almiglity,  I  feel  a  far 
different  sentiment — mv  heart  dilates  with  grati- 
10 


146  YOUNG    lady's 

tudc  and  love  to  liim :  it  is  prepared  for  doing  his 
will,  not  as  a  duty,  but  as  a  pleasure,  and  rejjards 
every  breach  of  it,  not  witli  disapprobation,  but 
with  horror." — "  You  say  right,  my  dear  sir,"  re- 
plied  tiie  philosopher  ;  "  but  you  are  not  yet  re-es- 
tablished enoug-li  to  talk  much — you  must  take 
care  of  your  healtli,  and  neither  study  nor  preach 
for  some  time.  I  have  been  thinking  over  a  scheme 
tliat  struck  me  to-day,  when  you  mentioned  your 
intended  departure.  I  never  was  in  Switzerland  ; 
I  have  a  great  niiud  to  accompany  your  daughter 
nnd  you  into  that  country.  1  will  help  to  take 
care  of  you  by  the  road ;  for,  as  I  was  your  first 
physician,  I  hold  myself  responsible  for  your  cure." 
— La  Roche's  eyes  glistened  at  the  proposal ;  his 
«laughtcr  was  called  in  and  told  of  it.  She  wa8 
equally  pleased  with  her  father ;  for  they  really 
loved  tlieir  landlord — net  perhaps  the  less  for  his 
infidelity  ;  at  least  that  circumstance  mixed  a  sort 
of  pity  with  their  regard  for  him — their  souls  were 
not  of  a  mould  for  harsher  feelings ;  hatred  never 
dwelt  in  them. 

They  travelled  by  short  stages ;  for  the  philoso- 
pher was  as  good  as  his  word,  in  taking  care  that 
the  old  man  should  not  be  fatigued-  The  party 
had  time  to  be  well  acquainted  with  one  another, 
and  their  friendship  was  increased  by  acquaintance. 
Ija  Roche  found  a  degree  of  simplicity  and  gentle- 
ness in  his  companion,  which  is  not  always  annex- 
id  to  the  character  of  a  learned  or  a  wise  man. 
ilis  daughter,  who  was  prepared  to  be  afraid  of 
)um,  was  equally  undeceived.  She  found  in  him 
nothing  of  that  self-importance  which  superior 
])art3,  or  great  cultivation  of  them,  is  apt  to  confer. 
He  talked  of  every  thing  but  philosophy  and  reli- 
gion ;  he   seemed    to    enjoy    every    pleasure    and 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  147 

amusement  of  ordinary  life,  and  to  be  interested 
in  the  most  connnon  topics  of  discourse  ;  wlien  his 
knowledge  or  learning-  at  any  time  appeared,  it  was 
delivered  witli  the  utmost  plainness,  and  without 
the  least  shadow  of  dogmatism. 

On  his  part,  he  was  charmed  with  the  society 
of  the  good  clergyman  and  his  lovely  daughter. 
He  found  in  them  the  guileless  manner  of  the  ear- 
liest times,  with  the  culture  and  accomplishment 
of  the  most  refined  ones.  Every  better  feeling, 
warm  and  vivid ;  every  ungentle  one,  repressed  or 
overcome.  He  was  not  addicted  to  love  ;  but  he 
felt  himself  happy  in  being  the  friend  of  made- 
moiselle La  Roche,  and  sometimes  envied  her  fa- 
ther the  possession  of  such  a  child. 

After  a  journey  of  eleven  days,  tliey  arrived  at 
the  dwelling  of  La  Roche.  It  was  situated  in  one 
of  those  valleys  of  the  canton  of  Berne,  where  Na- 
ture  seems  to  repose,  as  it  were,  in  quiet,  and  has 
inclosed  her  retreat  Avith  momitains  inaccessible- — 
A  stream  that  spent  its  fury  in  the  hills  above,  ran 
in  front  of  the  house,  and  a  broken  waterfall  was 
fc-een  through  the  wood  that  covered  its  sides  ;  be- 
low, it  circled  round  a  tufted  plain,  and  formed  a 
little  lake  in  front  of  a  village,  at  the  end  of  which 
appeared  the  spire  of  La  Roche's  church,  rising 
above  a  clump  of  beeches. 

Mr. enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the  scene ;  but, 

to  his  companions,  it  recalled  the  memory  of  a 
wife  and  parent  they  had  lost. — The  old  man's  sor- 
row  was  silent;  his  daughter  sobbed  and  wept. 
Her  father  took  her  hand,  kissed  it  twice,  pressed 
it  to  his  bosom,  threw  up  his  eyes  to  heaven  ;  and 
having  wiped  off  a  tear  that  was  just  about  to  drop 
from  each,  began  to  point  out  to  his  guest  some 
6f  the  most  striking  objects  which  the  prospect 


148  YOUNG  lady's 

afforded.  The  philosopher  interpreted  all  this; 
and  he  could  but  slightly  censure  the  creed  from 
which  it  arose. 

They  had  not  been  long  arrived  when  a  num- 
ber of  La  Roche's  parishioners,  who  had  heard 
of  his  return,  came  to  the  house  to  see  and  wel- 
come him.  The  honest  folks  were  awkward,  but 
sincere  in  their  profes^sions  of  regard.  They  made 
some  attempts  at-  condolence  ;  it  was  too  delicate 
for  their  handling ;  but  La  Roche  took  it  in  good 
part. — "  It  has  pleased  God,"  said  he ;  and  they 
saw  he  had  settled  the  matter  with  himself.  Phi- 
losophy could  not  have  done  so  much  with  a  thou- 
sand words. 

It  was  now  evening,  and  the  good  peasants  were 
about  to  depart,  when  a  clock  was  heard  to  strike 
seven,  and  the  hour  was  followed  by  a  particular 
chime.  The  country-folks,  who  had  come  to  wel- 
come their  pastor,  turned  their  looks  towards  him 
at  the  sound ;  he  explained  their  meaning  to  his 
guest.  "  That  is  the  signal,"  said  he,  "  for  our 
evening  exercise  :  this  is  one  of  the  nights  of  the 
week  in  which  some  of  my  parishioners  are  wont 
to  join  in  it ;  a  little  rustic  saloon  serves  for  the 
chapel  of  our  family,  and  such  of  the  good  people 
as  are  with  us  : — if  you  choose  rather  to  walk  out, 
I  will  furnish  you  with  an  attendant ;  or  here  are 
a  few  old  books  that  may  afford  you  some  enter- 
tainment within." — "  By  no  means,"  answered  the 
philosopher ;  "  I  will  attend  mademoiselle  at  her 
devotions." — "  She  is  our  organist,"  said  La  Roche; 
"our  neighbourhood  is  the  country  of  musical  me- 
chanism ;  and  I  have  a  small  organ  fitted  up  for 
the  purpose  of  assisting  our  singing." — "  'T  is  an 
additional  inducement,"  replied  the  other  ;  and 
they  walked  into  the  room  together.     At  the  end 


BOOK  OF  PROSE.  1  i9 

stood  the  org^an  mentioned  by  La  Roche  ;  before  it 
was  a  curtain,  which  liis  daughter  drew  aside,  and 
placing  lierself  on  a  seat  within,  and  drawing  the 
curtain  close,  so  as  to  save  her  the  awkwardness 
of  an  exhibition,  began  a  voluntary,  solemn  and 

beautiful  in  the  highest  degree.     Mr. was  no 

musician,  but  he  was  not  altogether  insensible  to 
music ;  this  fastened  on  his  mind  more  strongly, 
from  its  beauty  being  unexpected.  The  solemn 
prelude  introduced  a  hymn,  in  wliich  such  of  the 
audience  as  could  sing,  immediately  joined ;  the 
words  were  mostly  taken  from  holy  writ ;  it  spoke 
the  praises  of  God,  and  his  care  of  good  men. — 
Something  was  said  of  tlie  death  of  the  just,  of 
such  as  die  in  the  Lord.  The  organ  was  touched 
with  a  hand  less  firm  ; — it  paused,  it  ceased  ;  and 
tlie  sobbing  of  mademoiselle  La  Roche  was  heard 
in  its  stead.  Her  father  gave  a  sign  for  stopping 
the  psalmody,  and  rose  to  pray.  He  was  discom- 
posed at  first,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he  spoke  ; 
but  his  heart  was  in  his  words,  and  its  warmth 
overcame  his  embarrassment.  He  addressed  a 
Being  whom  he  loved,  and  he  spoke  for  those  he 
loved.  His  parishioners  catched  the  ardour  of  the 
good  old  man  ;  even  the  philosopher  felt  himself 
moved,  and  forgot,  for  a  moment,  to  think  why  he 
should  not. 

La  Roche's  religion  was  that  of  sentiment,  not 
theory,  and  his  guest  was  averse  from  disputation ; 
their  discourse,  therefore,  did  not  lead  to  questions 
concerning  the  belief  of  either ;  yet  would  the  old 
man  sometimes  speak  of  his,  from  the  fullness  of  a 
heart  impressed  with  its  force,  and  wishing  to 
spread  the  pleasure  he  enjoyed  in  it.  The  ideas  of 
his  God,  and  his  Saviour,  were  so  congenial  to  his 
mind,  that  every  emotion  of  it  naturally  awakened 


150  YouxG  lady's 

them.  A  philosopher  iniglit  liavc  called  him  an 
enthusiast;  but,  if  lie  possessed  the  tervour  of  en 
thusiasts,  he  was  guiltless  of  their  bigotry.  "  Our 
Father  wiiich  art  in  heaven  I"  might  the  good  man 
say — for  he  lelt  it — and  all  mankind  were  his 
brethren. 

"  You  regret,  my  friend,"  said  lie  to  Mr. , 

"  when  my  daughter  and  I  talk  of  the  exquisite 
pleasure  derived  from  nmsic ;  you  regret  your 
want  of  musical  powers  and  musical  feelings ;  it 
is  a  department  of  soul,  you  sg,y,  which  nature  has 
almost  denied  you,  which,  from  the  effects  you  see 
it  have  on  others,  you  arc  sure  must  be  highly  de- 
lightful.— Why  should  not  the  same  thing  be  said 
of  religion  ?  Trust  me,  I  feel  it  in  the  same  way, 
an  energy,  an  inspiration,  which  I  would  not  lose 
for  all  the  blessings  of  sense,  or  enjoyments  of  the 
world  ;  yet,  so  far  from  lessening  my  relish  of  the 
pleasures  of  life,  methinks  I  feel  it  heighten  them 
all.  The  thought  of  receiving  it  from  God,  adds 
the  blessing  of  sentiment  to  that  of  sensation  in 
every  good  thing  I  possess ;  and  when  calamities 
overtake  me — and  I  have  had  my  share — it  con- 
fers a  dignity  on  my  affliction, — so  lifts  me  above 
the  world.  Man,  I  know,  is  but  a  worm — yet, 
methinks,  I  am  then  allied  to  God  I"  It  would 
have  been  inhuman  in  our  philosopher  to  have 
clouded,  even  wuth  a  doubt,  the  sunshine  of  this 
belief. 

His  discourse,  indeed,  was  very  remote  from 
metaphysical  disquisition,  or  religious  controversy. 
Of  all  men  I  ever  knew,  his  ordinary  conversation 
was  the  least  tinctured  with  pedantry,  or  liable  to 
dissertation.  With  La  Roche  and  his  daughter,  it 
was  perfectly  familiar.  The  country  round  them, 
the  manners  of  the  villagers,  the  comparison  of 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  151 

both  with  those  of  England,  remarks  on  tlie  works 
of  favourite  authors,  on  tlie  sentiments  tliey  con- 
veyed, and  tlie  ])assions  they  excited,  with  many 
other  topics,  in  which  there  was  an  equality,  or 
alternate  advantage,  among  the  speakers,  were  the 
subjects  they  talked  on.    Their  hours  too  of  riding 

and  walking  were  many ;  in  which  Mr. ,  as 

a  stranger,  was  shown  the  remarkable  scenes  and 
curiosities  of  the  country.  They  would  sometimes 
make  little  expeditions  to  contemplate,  in  different 
attitudes,  those  astonishing  mountains,  the  cliffi? 
of  which,  covered  witli  eternal  snows,  and  some- 
times shooting  into  fantastic  shapes,  form  the  ter- 
mination of  most  of  tlie  Swiss  prospects.  Our 
philosopher  asked  many  questions  as  to  their  natu- 
ral history  and  productions.  La  lloche  observed 
tlic  subhmity  of  the  ideas  which  the  view  of  their 
stupendous  summits,  inaccessible  to  mortal  foot, 
was  calculated  to  inspire,  which  naturally,  said  he, 
leads  the  mind  to  that  Being  by  whom  their  foun- 
dations were  laid. — "  They  are  not  seen  in  Flan- 
ders !"  said  mademoiselle  with  a  sigh,     "That's 

an  odd  remark,"  said  Mr.  ,  smiling.  —  She 

blushed,  and  he  inquired  no  farther. 

It  was  with  regret  he  left  a  society  in  which  he 
found  himself  so  happy ;  but  he  settled  with  La 
Roche  and  his  daughter  a  plan  of  correspondence ; 
and  they  took  his  promise,  that,  if  ever  he  came 
within  fifty  leagues  of  their  dwelling,  he  should 
travel  those  fifty  leagues  to  visit  them. 

About  three  years  after,  our  philosopher  was  on 
a  visit  at  Geneva ;  the  promise  he  made  to  La 
Roche  and  his  daughter  on  his  former  visit,  was 
recalled  to  his  mind,  by  the  view  of  that  range  of 
mountains,  on  a  part  of  which  they  had  often 
looked  together.     There  was  a  re2)roach,  too,  con- 


lOa  YOn.NG    LADY  S 

veycd  aloncc  with  the  recollection,  for  liis  having 
failed  to  write  to  either  for  several  months  past. 
The  truth  was,  that  indolence  was  tlie  habit  most 
natural  to  him,  from  which  he  was  not  easily  roused 
by  tlie  claims  of  correspondence  either  of  his  friends 
or  of  his  enemies  ;  when  the  latter  drew  their  pens 
in  controversy,  they  were  often  unanswered  as 
well  as  the  former.  While  he  was  hesitating  about 
a  visit  to  La  Roche,  which  he  wished  to  make,  but 
found  the  effort  rather  too  much  for  him,  he  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  the  old  man,  which  had  been 
forwarded  to  him  from  Paris,  where  he  had  then 
fixed  his  residence.  It  contained  a  gentle  com- 
plaint of  Mr. 's  want  of  punctuality,  but  an 

assurance  of  continued  gratitude  for  his  former 
good  offices  ;  and,  as  a  friend  whom  the  writer 
considered  interested  in  his  family,  it  informed 
him  of  the  approaching  nuptials  of  mademoiselle 
La  Roche,  with  a  young  man,  a  relation  of  her 
own,  and  formerly  a  pupil  of  her  fatlicr's,  of  the 
most  amiable  disjwsitions,  and  respectable  charac- 
ter. Attached  from  their  earliest  years,  they  had 
been  separated  by  his  joining  one  of  the  subsidiary 
regi'ments  of  the  Canton,  then  in  the  service  of  a 
foreign  power.  In  this  situation  he  had  distinguish, 
ed  himself  as  much  for  courage  and  military  skill, 
as  for  the  other  endowments  which  he  had  culti- 
vated  at  home.  7^he  time  of  his  service  was  now 
expired,  and  they  expected  him  to  return  in  a  few 
weeks,  when  the  old  man  hoped,  as  he  expressed 
it  in  his  letter,  to  join  their  hands,  and  see  them 
happy  before  he  died. 

Our  philosopher  felt  himself  interested  in  this 
event ;  but  he  was  not,  perhaps,  altogether  so  hap- 
py in  the  tidings  of  mademoiselle  La  Roche's 
marriage,  as  her  father  supposed  him.     Not  that 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  153 

he  was  ever  a  lover  of  the  lady's  ;  but  he  tliought 
her  one  of  the  most  amiable  women  he  had  seen, 
and  there  was  something  in  the  idea  of  her  being- 
another's  for  ever,  that  struck  him,  lie  knew  not 
why,  like  a  disappointment.  After  some  little 
speculation  on  the  matter,  however,  he  could  look 
on  it  as  a  thing  fitting,  if  not  quite  agreeable,  and 
determined  on  this  visit  to  see  his  old  friend  and 
his  daughter  happy. 

On  tiie  last  day  of  his  journey,  different  acci- 
dents  had  retarded  his  progress  :  he  was  benighted 
before  he  reached  the  quarter  in  which  La  Roche 
resided.  His  guide,  however,  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  road,  and  he  found  himself  at  last  in  view 
of  the  lake,  which  I  have  before  described,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  La  Roche's  dwelling.  A  light 
gleamed  on  the  water,  that  seemed,  to  proceed 
from  the  house  ;  it  moved  slowly  along  as  he  pro- 
ceeded up  the  side  of  the  lake,  and  at  last  he  saw 
it  glimmer  through  the  trees,  and  stop  at  some  dis- 
tance fi-om  the  place  where  he  then  was.  He  sup- 
posed  it  some  piece  of  bridal  merriment,  and  push- 
ed on  his  horse,  that  he  might  be  a  spectator  of  the 
scene  ;  but  he  was  a  good  deal  shocked,  on  ap- 
preaching  the  spot,  to  find  it  proceed  from  the 
torch  of  a  person  clothed  in  the  dress  of  an  atten- 
dant on  a  funeral,  and  accompanied  by  several 
others,  who,  like  him,  seemed  to  have  been  em- 
ployed in  the  rites  of  sepulture. 

On  Mr.  's    making  inquiry  who  was  the 

person  they  had  been  burying,  one  of  them,  with 
an  accent  more  mournful  than  is  common  to  their 
profession,  answered,  "Then  you  knew  not  made- 
moiselle, sir  ? — you  never  beheld  a  lovelier" — "  La 
Roche  !"  exclaimed  he,  in  reply — "  Alas  I  it  was 
she  indeed  I"  —  The  appearance  of  surprise  and 


154  YOUNG  lady's 

grief  which  his  countenance  assumed,  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  peasant  with  whom  lie  talked. 

He  came  up  closer  to  Mr. ;  "  I  perceive,  sir, 

you  were  acquainted  with  mademoiselle  La  Roche." 
"  Acquainted  with  her  I — Good  God  I — when — how 
— where  did  she  die  ?  Where  is  her  father  ?"  "  She 
died,  sir,  of  heart-break,  I  believe  ;  the  young  gen- 
tleman to  whom  she  was  soon  to  have  been  mar- 
ried, was  killed  in  a  duel  by  a  French  officer,  his 
intimate  companion,  and  to  whom,  before  their 
quarrel,  he  ])ad  often  done  the  greatest  favours. 
Her  worthy  father  bears  her  death,  as  he  has  often 
told  us  a  Christian  should  ;  he  is  even  so  composed, 
as  to  be  now  in  his  pulpit,  ready  to  deliver  a  few 
exhortations  to  his  parishioners,  as  is  the  custom 
with  us  on  such  occasions  : — Follow  me,  sir,  and 
you  shall  hear  him."  He  followed  the  man  with- 
out answering. 

The  church  was  dimly  lighted,  except  near  the 
pulpit,  where  the  venerable  La  Roche  was  seated 
His  people  were  now  lifting  up  their  voices  in  a 
psalm  to  that  Being,  whom  their  pastor  had  taught 
them  ever  to  bless  and  revere.  La  Roche  sat,  his  , 
figure  bending  gently  forward,  his  eyes  half-closed, 
lifted  up  in  silent  devotion.  A  lamp,  placed  near 
him,  threw  its  light  strong  on  his  head,  and  mark- 
ed the  shadowy  lines  of  age  across  the  paleness 
of  his  brow,  thinly  covered  with  gray  hairs. 

The  music  ceased ;  La  Roche  sat  for  a  moment, 
and  nature  wrung  a  few  tears  from  him.  His  peo- 
ple'were  loud  in  their  grief.     Mr.  was  not 

less  affected  than  they. — La  Roche  arose.  "  Father 
of  mercies  I"  said  he,  "  forgive  these  tears  ;  assist 
thy  servant  to  lift  up  his  soul  to  thee ;  to  lift  to 
thee  the  souls  of  tliy  people !  My  friends !  it  is 
good  so  to  do  ;  at  all  seasons  it  is  good ;  but,  in  the 


BOOK    OF   PROSE.  155 

days  of  our  distress,  what  a  privileg-c  it  is  !  Well 
saith  the  sacred  book,  '  Trust  in  the  Lord ;  at  all 
times  trust  in  the  Lord.'  When  every  other  sup- 
port fails  us,  when  the  fountains  of  worldly  com- 
fort are  dried  up,  let  us  then  seek  those  living 
waters  wliich  flow  from  tlic  throne  of  God.  'T  is 
only  from  the  belief  of  the  goodness  and  wisdom 
of  a  supreme  Being,  that  our  calamities  can  be 
borne  in  that  manner  which  becomes  a  man.  Hu- 
man wisdom  is  here  of  little  use ;  for,  in  propor- 
tion as  it  bestows  comfort,  it  represses  feeling,  with- 
out which  we  may  cease  to  be  hurt  by  calamity, 
but  we  shall  also  cease  to  enjoy  happiness.  I  wiU 
not  bid  you  be  insensible,  my  friends  !  I  cannot,  I 
cannot,  if  I  would  (his  tears  flowed  afresh) — I  feel 
too  much  myself,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my 
feelings ;  but  therefore  may  I  the  more  willingly 
be  heard  ;  therefore  have  I  prayed  God  to  give  me 
strength  to  speak  to  you ;  to  direct  you  to  Him, 
not  with  empty  words,  but  with  these  tears,  not 
from  speculation,  but  from  experience, — that  while 
you  see  me  suffer,  you  may  know  also  my  conso- 
lation. 

"  You  behold  the  mourner  of  his  only  child,  the 
last  earthly  stay  and  blessing  of  his  declining 
years  !  Such  a  child  too ! — It  becomes  not  me  to 
speak  of  her  virtues ;  yet  it  is  but  gratitude  to 
mention  them,  because  they  were  exerted  towards 
myself.  Not  many  days  ago,  you  saw  her  yoimg, 
beautiful,  virtuous,  and  happy  ;  ye  who  are  parents 
will  judge  of  my  felicity  then, — ye  will  judge  of 
my  affliction  now.  But  I  look  towards  him  who 
struck  me  ;  I  see  the  hand  of  a  father  amidst  the 
cliastenings  of  my  God.  Oh  !  could  I  make  you 
feel  what  it  is  to  pour  out  the  heart,  when  it  is 
pressed  dovv'n  with  many  sorrows,  to  pour  it  out 


156  YOUNG    lady's 

with  confidence  to  Him  in  whose  liands  are  life 
and  death,  on  whose  power  awaits  all  that  the  first 
enjoys,  and  in  contemplation  of  whom  disappears 
all  tliat  the  last  can  inflict  I  For  we  are  not  as 
those  who  die  without  hope ;  we  know  thirt  our 
Redeemer  liveth, — tliat  we  shall  live  with  Him, 
with  our  friends,  his  servants,  in  that  blessed  land 
where  sorrow  is  unknown,  and  happiness  is  endless 
as  it  is  perfect.  Go  then,  mourn  not  for  me ;  1 
have  not  lost  my  child :  but  a  little  while,  and  we 
shall  meet  again  never  to  be  separated.  But  ye 
are  also  my  children  :  would  ye  that  I  should  not 
grieve  without  comfort  ?  So  live  as  she  lived : 
that,  when  your  death  cometh,  it  may  be  the  death 
of  the  righteous,  and  your  latter  end  like  his." 

Such  were  the  exhortations  of  La  Roche :  his 
audience  answered  it  with  their  tears.  The  good 
old  man  had  dried  up  his  at  the  altar  of  the  Lord ; 
his  countenance  had  lost  its  sadness,  and  assumed 

the  glow  of  faith  and  of  hope.     Mr. followed 

him  into  his  house.  The  inspiration  of  the  pulpit 
was  past ;  at  sight  of  him  the  scenes  they  had  last 
met  in,  rushed  again  on  his  mind  ;  La  Roche  threw 
his  arms  round  his  neck,  and  watered  it  with  his 
tears.  The  other  was  equally  affected  ;  they  went 
together  in  silence,  into  the  parlour,  where  the 
evening  service  was  wont  to  be  performed.  The 
curtains  of  the  organ  were  open ;  La  Roche  start- 
ed  back  at  the  sight.     "  Oh  !  my  friend  !"  said  he, 

and  his  tears  burst  forth  again.   Mr. had  now 

recollected  himself;  he  stept  forward,  and  drew 
the  curtains  close — the  old  man  wiped  off  his  tears, 
and  taking  his  friend's  hand,  "  You  see  my  weak- 
ness," said  he,  "'tis  the  weakness  of  humanity; 
but  my  comfort  is  not  therefore  lost."  "  I  heard 
you,"  said  the  other,  "  in  the  pulpit ;  I  rejoice  that 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  157 

such  consolation  is  yours."  "  It  is,  my  friend," 
said  he ;  "  and  I  trust  I  shall  ever  hold  it  fast ;  if 
there  are  any  who  doubt  our  faith,  let  them  think 
of  wliat  importance  religion  is  to  calamity,  and 
forbear  to  weaken  its  force ;  if  they  cannot  restore 
our  happiness,  let  them  not  take  away  the  solace 
of  our  affliction." 

Mr. 's  heart  was  smitten ;  and  I  have  heard 

him,  long  after,  confess,  that  there  were  moments 
when  the  remembrance  overcame  him  even  to 
weakness ;  when,  amidst  all  the  pleasures  of  phi- 
losophical discovery,  and  the  pride  of  literary  fame, 
he  recalled  to  his  mind  the  venerable  figure  of  the 
good  La  Roche,  and  wished  tliat  he  had  never 
doubted. 

Mackenzie. 


LUCY. 

About  a  twelvemonth  ago  we  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  lose  a  very  faithful  and  favourite  female 
servant;  one  who  has  spoiled  us  for  all  others. 
Nobody  can  expect  to  meet  with  two  Lucies.  Wc 
all  loved  Lucy — poor  Lucy  !  She  did  not  die — she 
only  married  ;  but  we  were  so  sorry  to  part  with 
her,  that  her  wedding,  which  was  kept  at  our 
house,  was  almost  as  tragical  as  a  funeral ;  and 
from  pure  regret  and  affection  we  sum  up  her  me- 
rits, and  bemoan  our  loss,  just  as  if  she  had  really 
departed  this  life. 

Lucy's  praise  is  a  most  fertile  theme :  she  united 
the  pleasant  and  amusing  qualities  of  a  Frencli 
soubrctte,  witli  the  solid  excellence  of  an  English- 
woman of  the  old  school,  and  was  good  by  con 
trarics.     In  the  first  place,  she  was  exceedingly 


158  YOUNG  lady's 

a^ceable  to  look  at;  remarkably  pretty.  She 
lived  in  our  family  eleven  years  ;  but,  having-  come 
to  us  very  young,  was  still  under  thirty,  just  in 
full  bloom,  and  a  very  brilliant  bloom  it  was.  Her 
figure  was  rather  tall,  and  rather  larjgo,  with  deli- 
cate hands  and  feet,  and  a  remarkable  ease  and 
vigour  in  her  motions :  I  never  saw  any  woman 
walk  so  fast  or  so  well.  Her  faee  was  round  and 
dimpled,  with  sparkling  gray  eyes,  black  eye- 
brows and  eye-lashes,  a  profusion  of  dark  hair, 
very  red  lips,  very  white  teeth,  and  a  complexion 
that  entirely  took  away  the  look  of  vulgarity  which 
tlie  breadth  and  flatness  of  her  face  might  other- 
wise have  given.  Such  a  complexion,  so  pure,  so 
finely  grained,  so  healthily  fair,  with  such  a  sweet 
rosiness,  brightening  and  varying  like  her  dancing 
eyes  whenever  she  spoke  or  smiled  !  When  silent, 
she  was  almost  pule ;  but,  to  confess  the  truth,  she 
was  not  often  silent.  Lucy  liked  talking,  and 
every  body  liked  to  hear  her  talk.  There  is  al- 
ways great  freshness  and  originality  in  an  unedu- 
cated and  quick-witted  person,  who  surprises  one 
continually  by  unsuspected  knowledge  or  amusing 
ignorance ;  and  Lucy  had  a  real  talent  for  conver- 
sation. Her  light  and  pleasant  temper,  her  cle- 
verness, her  universal  kindness,  and  the  admirable 
address,  or  rather  the  excellent  feeling,  with  which 
she  contrived  to  unite  the  most  perfect  respect 
with  the  most  cordial  and  affectionate  interest, 
guve  a  singular  charm  to  her  prattle.  No  confi- 
dence or  indulgence — and  she  was  well  tried  with 
both — ever  made  her  forget  herself  for  a  moment 
All  our  friends  used  to  loiter  at  the  door  or  in  the 
hall  to  speak  to  Lucy,  and  they  miss  her,  and  ask 
for  her,  as  if  she  were  rcr.lh  one  of  the  family. — 
She  was  not  less  liked  by  her  equals.     Her  con- 


BOOK    OF   PROSK.  159 

slant  simplicity  and  riglit-mindodncss  kept  lier  al- 
ways in  licr  place  witli  tlioiu  as  with  us ;  and  her 
gaiety  and  good-humour  made  her  a  most  welcome 
visitor  in  every  shop  and  cottage  round.  She  had 
another  qualification  for  village  society — she  was 
an  incomparahlc  gossip,  had  a  rare  genius  for 
picking  up  news,  and  great  liberality  in  its  diffu- 
sion. Births,  deaths,  marriages,  casualties,  quar> 
rels,  battles,  scandal — nothing  came  amiss  to  her. 
She  could  have  furnished  a  weekly  paper  from 
her  own  stores  of  facts,  without  once  resorting  for 
assistance  to  the  courts  of  law  or  the  two  houses 
of  parliament.  She  was  a  very  charitable  reporter 
too;  threw  her  own  sunshine  into  the  shady 
places,  and  would  hope  and  doubt  as  long  as 
either  was  possible.  Her  fertility  of  intelligence 
was  wonderful ;  and  so  early  !  Her  news  hud  al- 
ways the  bloom  on  it;  there  was  no  being  before- 
hand with  Lucy.  It  was  a  little  mortifying  when 
one  came  prepared  with  something  very  recent 
and  surprising,  something  that  should  have  made 
her  start  with  astonishment,  to  find  her  fully  ac^ 
quainted  w-ith  the  story,  and  able  to  lurnish  you 
with  twenty  particulars  that  you  had  never  heard 
of.  But  this  evil  had  its  peculiar  compensation. 
By  Lucy's  aid  I  passed  with  every  body,  but  Lucy 
herself,  for  a  woman  of  great  information,  an  ex- 
cellent authority,  an  undoubted  reference  in  all 
matters  of  gossipry.  Now  I  lag  miserably  behind 
the  time ;  I  never  hear  of  a  death  till  afier  the 
funeral,  nor  of  a  wxdding  till  I  read  it  i)i  the  pa- 
pers ;  and,  when  people  talk  of  reports  and  ru- 
mours, they  undo  me.  I  should  be  obliged  to  run 
away  from  the  tea-tables,  if  I  had  not  taken  the 
resolution  to  look  wise  and  say  nothing,  and  live 
on  my  old  reputation.     Indeed,  even  now  Lucy's 


160  YOUNG   lady's 

fund  is  not  entirely  exhausted ;  tilings  have  not 
quite  done  happening.  I  knovi  nothing  new  ;  but 
my  knowledge  of  by-gone  passages  is  absolute;  I 
can  prophesy  past  events  like  a  gipsy. 

Scattered  amongst  her  great  merits  Lucy  had  a 
few  small  faults,  as  all  persons  should  have.  Slie 
had  occasionally  an  aptness  to  take  offence  where 
none  was  intended,  and  then  the  whole  house  bore 
audible  testimony  to  her  displeasure :  she  used  to 
scour  through  half-a-dozen  doors  in  a  minute  for 
tiie  mere  purpose  of  banging  them  after  her.  She 
had  rather  more  fears  than  were  quite  convenient 
of  ghosts  and  witches,  and  thunder,  and  earwigs, 
and  various  other  real  and  unreal  sights  and 
sounds,  and  thought  nothing  of  rousing  half  the 
family  in  the  middle  of  the  night  at  the  first  symp- 
tom of  a  thunder-storm  or  an  apparition.  She  had 
a  terrible  genius  for  music,  and  a  tremendously 
powerful  shrill  high  voice.  Oh !  her  door-clapping 
was  notliing  to  her  singing !  it  rang  through  one's 
head  like  the  screams  of  a  peacock.  Lastly,  she 
was  a  sad  flirt ;  she  had  about  twenty  lovers  whilst 
she  lived  with  us,  probably  more,  but  upwards 
of  twenty  she  acknowledged.  Her  master,  who 
watched  with  great  amusement  this  vminterrupted 
and  intricate  succession  of  favourites,  had  the  habit 
of  calling  her  by  the  name  of  the  reigning  beau — 
Mrs.  Charles,  Mrs.  John,  Mrs. Robert;  so  that  she 
has  answered  in  her  time  to  as  many  masculine 
appellations  as  would  serve  to  supply  a  large  fami- 
ly with  a  "  commodity  of  good  names."  Once  he 
departed  from  tliis  custom,  and  called  her  "  Jenny 
Denison."  On  her  inquiring  the  reason,  we  showed 
her  "  Old  Mortality,"  and  asked  if  she  could  not 
guess.  "  Dear  me,"  said  she,  "why  Jenny  Denison 
had  only  two  I"  Amongst  Lucy's  twenty  were  three 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  161 

one  eyed  lovers,  like  the  three  one-eyed  calendars 
in  the  "  Arabian  Nights."  They  were  much  about 
the  same  period,  nearly  contemporaries,  and  one 
of  them  had  nearly  carried  oif  the  fair  Helen.  If 
he  had  had  two  eyes,  his  success  would  have  been 
certain.  She  said  yes  and  no,  and  yes  again ;  he 
was  a  very  nice  young'  man — but  that  one  eye — 
that  unlucky  one  eye ! — and  tlie  being  rallied  on 
her  three  calendars.  There  was  no  getting-  over 
that  one  eye  :  she  said  no,  once  more,  and  stood 
firm.  And  yet  the  pendulum  might  have  continued 
to  vibrate  many  times  longer,  had  it  not  been  fixed 
by  the  athletic  charms  of  a  gigantic  London  tailor, 
a  superb  man,  really :  black-haired,  black-eyed, 
six  feet  high,  and  larg-e  in  proportion.  He  canje 
to  improve  the  country  fashions,  and  fixed  his 
shop-board  in  a  cottage  so  near  us  tliat  his  garden 
was  only  divided  from  our  lawn  by  a  plantation 
full  of  acacias  and  lioneysucklcs,  where  "  the  air 
smelt  wooingly."  It  follov^-cd  of  course  that  he 
should  make  love  to  Lucy,  and  that  Lucy  should 
listen.  All  was  speedily  settled ;  as  soon  as  he 
should  be  established  in  a  good  business,  which, 
from  his  incomparable  talent  at  cutting  out,  no- 
body could  doubt,  they  were  to  be  married.  But 
they  had  not  calculated  on  the  perversity  of  coun- 
try taste ;  he  was  too  good  a  workman ;  liis  suits 
fitted  over  well ;  his  employers  missed  certain  ac- 
customed awkwardnesses  and  redundancies  which 
passed  for  beauties ;  besides,  tlie  stiffness  and  tight 
ness  which  distinguished  the  new  coat  of  the  an- 
den  regime,  were  wanting  in  tlie  make  of  this 
daring  innovator.  The  shears  of  our  Bond-street 
cutter  were  as  powerful  as  the  wooden  sword  of 
Harlequin ;  he  turned  his  clowns  into  gentlemen, 
and  their  brother  clod-hoppers  laughed  at  them, 

n 


162  YOUNG  lady's 

and  tlicy  were  ashamed.  So  the  poor  tailor  lost 
hus  customers  and  his  credit ;  and  just  as  Jic  had 
obtained  Lucy's  consent  to  the  marriage,  he  walk- 
ed off  one  fair  morning,  and  was  never  heard  of 
more.  Lucy's  absorbing  feeling  on  this  catastrophe 
was  astonishment,  pure  unmixed  astonishment  I 
One  would  have  thought  that  she  considered  fickle- 
ness as  a  female  privilege,  and  had  never  heard 
of  a  man  deserting  a  woman  in  her  life.  For 
three  days  she  could  only  wonder ;  then  came 
great  indignation,  and  a  little,  a  very  little  grief, 
which  showed  itself  not  so  much  in  her  words, 
which  were  chiefly  such  disclaimers  as  "  I  don't 
care !  very  lucky  I  happy  escape !"  and  so  on,  as 
in  her  goings  and  doings,  her  aversion  to  the  poor 
acacia  grove,  and  even  to  the  sight  and  smell  of 
honeysuckles,  her  total  loss  of  jrnemory,  and  above 
all,  in  the  distaste  she  showed  to  new  conquests. 
She  paid  her  faithless  suitor  the  compliment  of 
remaining  loverless  for  three  weary  months ;  and 
even  when  she  relented  a  little,  she  admitted  no 
fresh  adorer,  nothing  but  an  old  hanger-on ;  one 
not  quite  discarded  during  the  tailor's  reign  ;  one 
who  had  dangled  after  iier  durmg  the  long  court- 
ship of  the  three  calendars ;  one  who  was  the 
handiest  and  most  complaisant  of  wooers,  always 
ready  to  fill  up  an  interval,  like  a  book,  v/hich  can 
be  laid  aside  when  company  comes  in,  and  resum- 
ed a  month  afterwards  at  the  very  page  and  line 
where  the  reader  left  off.  I  think  it  was  an  affair 
of  amusement  and  convenience  on  both  sides. 
Lucy  never  intended  to  marry  this  commodious 
stopper  of  love-gaps ;  and  he,  though  he  courted 
her  for  ten  mortal  years,  never  made  a  direct  offer, 
till  afler  the  banns  were  published  between  her  and 
her  present  husband  :  then,  indeed,  he  said  he  was 


DOOK    OF    PROSK.  163 

Borry — he  had  hoped — was  it  too  late  ?  and  so 
forth.  Ah  !  his  sorrow  was  nothing  to  ours,  and, 
when  it  came  to  the  point,  notliing  to  Lucy's.  She 
cried  every  day  Ibr  a  fortnight,  and  had  not  her 
successor  in  othce,  the  new  housemaid,  arrived,  I 
do  really  believe  that  this  lover  would  have  shared 
tlie  fate  of  the  many  successors  to  the  unfortunate 
tailor. 

I  hope  that  her  choice  has  been  fortunate ;  it  is 
certainly  very  different  from  what  we  all  expected. 
The  happy  man  had  been  a  neighbour,  (not  on  the 
side  of  the  acacia-trecs,)  and  on  his  removal  to  a 
greater  distance  the  marriage  took  place.  Poor 
dear  Lucy !  her  spouse  is  the  greatest  possible 
contrast  to  herself;  ten  years  younger  at  the  very 
least;  well-looking,  but  with  no  expression  good 
or  bad — I  don't  tliink  he  could  smile,  if  he  would 
— assuredly  he  never  tries ;  well  made,  but  as  stiff 
as  a  poker;  I  dare  say,  he  never  ran  three  yards 
in  his  life ;  perfectly  steady,  sober,  honest,  and  in- 
dustrious; but  so  young,  so  grave,  so  dull  I  one  of 
your  "  demure  boys,"  as  Falstaff  calls  them,  "  that 
never  come  to  proof"  You  might  guess  a  mile 
off  that  he  was  a  schoolmaster,  from  the  swelling 
pomposity  of  gait,  the  solemn  decorum  of  manner, 
the  affectation  of  age  and  wisdom,  which  contrast 
so  oddly  with  his  young  unmeaning  face.  The 
moment  he  speaks,  you  arc  certain.  Nobody  but  a 
village  pedagogue  ever  did  or  ever  could  talk  like 
Mr.  Brown, — ever  displayed  such  elaborate  polite- 
ness,  such  a  study  of  phrases,  such  choice  words 
and  long  words,  and  fine  words  and  hard  words ! 
He  speaks  by  the  book, — the  spelling-book,  and  is 
civil  after  the  fashion  of  the  Polite  Letter-Writer. 
He  is  so  entirely  without  tact,  that  he  does  not  in 
the  least  understand  the  impression  produced  by 


164  YOUNG  lady's 

iiis  wife's  delightful  manners,  and  interrupts  her 
perpetually  to  sjx^eehify  and  apologize,  and  explain 
and  amend.  He  is  fond  of  her,  nevertheless,  in 
his  own  cold  slow  way,  and  proud  of  her,  and 
grateful  to  her  friends,  and  a  very  good  khid  of 
young  man  altogether ;  only  that  1  cannot  quite 
tbrgive  him  for  taking  Lucy  away  in  the  fir:it 
place,  and  making  her  a  school-mistress  in  the 
second.  She  a  scliool-mistrcss,  a  keeper  of  silence, 
a  maintainer  of  discipline,  a  scolder,  a  punisher  ! 
All  I  she  would  rather  be  scolded  herself;  it  would 
be  a  far  lighter  punishment.  Lucy  likes  her  voca- 
tion as  little  as  I  do.  She  has  not  the  natural  love 
of  children,  which  would  reconcile  her  to  the  evils 
they  cause ;  and  she  has  a  real  passion  for  cleanli- 
ness, a  fiery  spirit  of  dispatch,  which  cannot  en- 
dure the  dust  and  litter  created  by  the  little  troop 
on  the  one  hand,  or  their  tormenting  slowness  and 
stupidity  on  the  other.  She  was  the  quickest  and 
neatest  of  work- women,  piqued  herself  on  complet- 
ing a  shirt  or  a  gown  sooner  and  better  than  seem- 
ed possible,  and  was  scandalized  at  finding  such 
talents  degraded  to  the  ignoble  occupations  of 
tacking  a  quarter  of  a  yard  of  hemming  for  one, 
pinning  half  a  scam  for  anotlier,  picking  out  the 
crooked  stitching  of  a  third,  and  working  over  the 
weak  irregular  burst-out  button-hole  of  a  fourth. 

When  she  first  went  to  S ,  she  was  strongly 

tempted  to  do  all  the  work  herself.  "  The  children 
would  have  liked  it,"  said  she,  "  and  really  I  don't 
think  the  mothers  would  have  objected ;  they  care 
for  nothing  but  marking.  There  are  seven  girls 
now  in  the  school  working  samplers  to  be  framed. 
Such  a  waste  of  silk,  and  time,  and  trouble !  I 
said  to  Mrs.  Smith,  and  Mrs.  Smith  said  to  me." — 
Tiien  she  recounted  the  whole  battle  of  the  sam- 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  IGo 

piers,  and  her  defeat;  and  then  she  sent  for  one 
which,  in  spite  of  licr  declaration  tiiat  lur  girls 
never  finished  any  thing',  was  quite  completed 
(probably  with  a  good  deal  of  her  assistance),  and 
of  which,  notwithstanding  her  rational  objection 
to  its  uselcssness,  Lucy  was  not  a  little  proud. 
Slie  held  it  up  with  great  delight,  pointed  out  all 
the  beauties,  selected  her  own  favourite  parts, 
especially  a  certain  square  rose-bud,  and  tlie  land- 
scape at  the  bottom  ;  and  finally  pinned  it  against 
the  wall,  to  show  the  effect  it  would  have  when 
framed.  Really,  that  sampler  was  a  superb  thing 
in  its  way.  First  came  a  plain  pink  border ;  then 
a  green  border,  zig-zag ;  then  a  crimson,  wavy ; 
then  a  brown,  of  a  different  and  more  coniplicated 
■/ig-zag ;  then  the  alphabet,  great  and  small,  in 
every  colour  of  the  rainbow,  followed  by  a  row  of 
figures,  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  flower,  name  un- 
known, tulip,  poppy,  lily, — something  orange  or 
scarlet,  or  orange-scarlet;  on  the  other  by  the 
famous  rose-bud ;  then  divers  sentences,  religious 
and  moral : — Lucy  was  quite  provoked  with  me 
for  not  being  able  to  read  them  :  I  dare  say  she 
thought  in  her  heart  that  I  was  as  stupid  as  any 
of  her  scholars ;  but  never  was  MS.  so  illegible, 
not  even  my  own,  as  the  print  work  of  that  sam- 
pler— then,  last  and  finest,  the  landscape,  in  all  its 
glory.  It  occupied  the  whole  narrow  line  at  the 
bottom,  and  was  composed  with  great  regularity. 
In  the  centre  was  a  house  of  a  bright  scarlet,  with 
yellow  windows,  a  green  door,  and  a  blue  roof:  on 
one  side,  a  man  with  a  dog ;  on  the  other,  a  wo- 
man with  a  jctrt — this  is  Lucy's  information ;  I 
should  never  have  guessed  that  there  was  any 
difference,  except  in  colour,  between  the  man  and 
the  woman,  the  dog  and  the  cat ;   they  were  in 


166  YOUNG  lady's 

form,  height,  and  size,  aUke  to  a  thread;  the  man 
gray,  the  woman  pink,  liis  attendant  white,  and 
her's  black.  Next  to  these  figures,  on  either  side, 
rose  two  fir-trees  from  two  red  flower-pots,  nice 
httle  round  bushes  of  a  bright  green  intermixed 
with  brown  stitches,  which  Lucy  explained,  not  to 
me. — "  Don't  you  see  the  fir-cones.  Sir  ?  Don't 
you  remember  how  fond  she  used  to  be  of  picking 
them  up  in  her  little  basket  at  tlie  dear  old  place '' 
Poor  thing,  I  thought  of  her  all  the  time  that  I 
was  working  them  1  Don't  you  like  the  fir-cones?" 

After  this,  I  looked  at  the  landscape  almost 

as  lovingly  as  Lucy  herself. 

With  all  her  dislike  to  keeping  school,  the  dear 
Lucy  seems  happy.  In  addition  to  the  merciful 
spirit  of  conformity,  which  shapes  the  mind  to  the 
situation,  wliatcver  that  may  be,  slie  has  many 
sources  of  vanity  and  comfort — her  house,  above 
all.  It  is  a  very  respectable  dwelling,  finely  placed 
on  the  edge  of  a  large  common,  close  to  a  high- 
road  with  a  pretty  flower-court  before  it,  shaded 
by  four  horse-chestnuts  cut  into  arches,  a  sashed 
window  on  eitlier  side  of  the  door,  and  on  the 
door  a  brass  knocker,  wliieh  being  securely  nailed 
down,  serves  as  a  quiet  peaceable  handle  for  all 
goers,  instead  of  the  importunate  and  noisy  use 
for  which  it  was  designed.  Jutting  out  at  one  end 
of  the  court  is  a  small  stable ;  retiring  back  at  the 
other,  a  large  school-room,  and  behind  a  yard  for 
children,  pigs,  and  poultry,  a  garden,  and  an  ar- 
bour. The  inside  is  full  of  comfort;  miraculously 
clean  and  orderly  for  a  village  school,  and  with  a 
little  touch  of  very  allowable  finery  in  the  gay 
window-curtains,  the  cupboard  full  of  pretty  china, 
the  handsome  chairs,  the  bright  mahogany  table, 
the  sliining  tea-urn,  and  briUiant  tea-tray  that  de- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  167 

corate  the  parlour.  What  a  pleasure  it  is  to  see 
Lucy  presiding  in  that  parlour,  in  all  the  glory  of 
lier  honest  altcction  and  her  warm  hospitality, 
making  tea  for  the  three  guests  whom  she  loves 
best  in  the  world,  vaunting  with  courteous  pride 
her  home-made  bread  and  her  fresh  butter,  yet 
tliinking  nothing  good  enough  for  the  occasion ; 
smiling  and  glowing,  and  looking  the  very  image 
of  beautiful  happiness. — Such  a  moment  almost 
consoles  us  for  losing  her. 

Lucy's  pleasure  is  in  her  house ;  mine  is  in  its 
situation.  The  common  on  which  it  stands  is  one 
of  a  series  of  heathy  hills,  or  rather  a  high  table- 
land, pierced  in  one  part  by  a  ravine  of  marshy 
ground,  filled  witli  alder  bushes  growing  larger 
and  larger  as  the  valley  widens,  and  at  last  mixing 

with  the  fine  old  oaks  of  the  forest  of  P . 

Nothing  can  be  more  delightful  than  to  sit  on  the 
steep  brow  of  the  hill,  amongst  the  fragrant  heath- 
flowers,  the  blue-bells,  and  the  wild  thyme,  and 
look  upon  the  sea  of  trees  spreading  out  beneatJi 
us  ;  the  sluggish  water  just  peeping  from  amid  the 
alders,  giving  brightly  back  the  bright  blue  sky  ; 
and,  farther  down,  herds  of  rough  ponies,  and  of 
small  stunted  cows,  the  wealth  of  the  poor,  com- 
ing up  from  the  forest.  I  have  sometimes  seen 
two  hundred  of  these  cows  together,  each  belong- 
ing to  a  different  person,  and  distinguishing  and 
obeying  the  call  of  its  milker.  All  the  boundaries 
of  this  heath  are  beautiful.  On  one  side  is  the 
hanging  coppice,  where  the  lily  of  the  valley  grows 
so  plentifully  amongst  broken  ridges  and  fox-earths. 
and  the  roots  of  pollard-trees.  On  another  are  the 
immense  fir  plantations  of  Mr.  B.,  whose  balmy 
odour  hangs  heavily  in  the  air,  or  comes  sailing 
on  the  breeze  like  smoke  across  tlie  landscape. 


168  YocNG  lady's 

Farther  on,  beyond  the  pretty  parsonage-house, 
with  its  short  ivcnuc,  its  fish-ponds,  and  the 
ina<rnificent  pophirs  wliicli  form  a  landmark  lor 
many  miles  round,  rise  the  rock-like  walls  of  the 
old  city  of  S ,  one  of  the  most  perfect  Ro- 
man remains  now  existing  in  England.  The  wall 
can  be  traced  all  round,  rising  sometimes  to  a 
height  of  twenty  feet,  over  a  deep  narrow  slip  of 
meadow  land,  once  the  ditch,  and  still  full  of  aqua- 
tic flowers.  The  ground  within  rises  level  with 
the  top  of  the  wall,  which  is  of  gray  stone,  crown- 
ed with  the  finest  forest  trees,  wJiose  roots  seem 
interlaced  with  the  old  masonry,  and  covered  witli 
wreaths  of  ivy,  brambles,  and  a  hundred  otlier 
trailing  plants.  Close  by  one  of  the  openings, 
which  mark  the  site  of  the  gates,  is  a  graduated 
terrace,  called-  by  antiquaries  the  Amphitheatre, 
which  commands  a  rich  and  extensive  view,  and 
u  backed  by  tlie  village  church  and  an  old  farm- 
Jiouse, — tlie  sole  buildings  in  that  once  populous 
city,  whose  streets  are  now  traced  only  by  the 
bliglited  and  withered  appearance  of  the  ripening 
corn.  Roman  coins  and  urns  are  often  ploughed 
up  there,  and  it  is  a  favourite  haimt  of  the  lovers 
of  "  hoar  antiquity."  But  the  beauty  of  the  place 
is  independent  of  its  noble  associations.  The  very 
heart  expands  in  tJie  deep  verdure  and  perfect 
loneliness  of  that  narrow  winding  valley,  fenced 
on  one  side  by  steep  coppices  or  its  own  tall  irre- 
gular hedge,  on  the  other  by  the  venerable  crag- 
like wall,  whose  proud  coronet  of  trees,  its  jutting 
ivy,  its  huge  twisted  thorns,  its  briery  festoons,  and 
the  deep  caves  where  the  rabbits  burrow,  make 
the  old  bulwark  seem  no  work  of  man,  but  a  ma- 
jestic piece  of  nature.  As  a  picture  it  is  exquisite. 
Nothing  can  be  finer  than  the  mixture  of  those 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  IG'J 

varied  greens  so  crisp  and  life-like,  \vith  the  crum- 
bling' gray  stone ;  nothing  more  perleelly  m  har- 
mony with  the  solenm  beauty  of  the  place,  than 
the  deep  cooings  of  the  wood-pigeons,  who  abound 
in  the  walls.  I  know  no  pleasure  so  intense,  so 
soothing,  so  apt  to  bring  sweet  tears  into  tlie  eyes, 
or  to  awaken  thoughts  that  "lie  too  deep  for  tears," 
as  a  walk  round  the  old  city  on  a  fine  summer 
evening.  A  ride  to  S was  always  delight- 
ful to  me,  even  before  it  became  the  residence  of 
Lucy ;  it  is  now  my  prime  festival. 

Miss  Mitford. 


THE  MEXICAN  PRINCESS. 

With  good  hearts,  Juan  Lerma  and  the  princess 
of  Mexico  moved  among  the  corruptions  of  super- 
stition, uncorruptcd  ;  and  preserved  to  themselves, 
unabated  and  unsullied,  the  pure  and  gentle  feel- 
ings which  nature  had  showered  upon  them  at 
their  birth. 

The  moon,  falling  aslant  upon  the  garden,  lighted 
the  countenances  of  the  young  Spanish  exile  and 
the  orphan  child  of  Montezuma,  as  they  rested  upon 
the  sunnnitof  a  little  artificial  mound,  ornamented 
with  carved  stone  seats  and  rude  statuary,  con- 
structed lor  the  i)urpose  of  overlooking  the  walls. 
The  visage  of  the  Christian  was  illumined  by  pen- 
sive smiles,  and  his  lips  breathed  gently  and  fer- 
vently the  accents  that  were  sweetest  to  the  ears 
of  the  Indian  maiden.  But  did  he  discourse  of 
worldly  atibction  and  passion  to  one  so  ignorant 
and  artless  ?  A  nobler  spirit  animated  the  youth 
He  spoke  of  the  faith  of  Christians,  and  laboured 
with  more  than  the  zeal,  though  not  perhaps  with 


170  YOUNG    lady's 

llic  wisdom,  of  llic  missionary,  to  impress  its  divine 
truths  upon  the  mind  of  his  licarer.  If  his  argu- 
ments were  somewhat  less  cog^cnt  and  logical  than 
might  have  been  spoken,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  his  religion  was  like  that  which  will  perhaps 
belong  to  the  majority  of  Christians  to  the  end  of 
the  world, — a  faith  of  the  heart,  which  the  head 
has  not  been  accustomed  to  canvass. 

lie  directed  her  eyes  to  the  moon,  to  the  evening 
star,  and  to  those  other  celestial  wanderers,  by 
which  the  heart  of  man  was  "  secretly  enticed," 
even  before  the  days  of  the  perfect  man  of  Uz. 

"  They  are  the  little  bright  heroes  that  hang 
down  from  the  house  of  Omcteuctli,  king  of  the 
city  of  heaven,"  said  the  poor  infidel, — "  all  save 
Meztli,"  (the  moon)  "  who  is  the  king  of  night, 
brother  of  Tonatricli,"  (the  sun)  "god  of  the  burn- 
ing day.  This  is  what  they  say  of  the  two  gods  : 
Tlicre  were  men  on  earth,  but  wicked :  the  ancient 
jj^ods,  tlic  sons  of  Ipalnemoani,  killed  them.  Tiien 
Ometeuctli  sent  forth  from  the  city  of  heaven  his 
sons,  who  descended  to  Mictlan, — the  dark  hell, — 
by  the  road  that  leads  between  the  Fighting  Moun- 
tains, and  the  Eight  Deserts, — and  stole  the  bones 
of  men,  that  Mictlanteuctli  had  heaped  up  in  his 
cavern.  Tlie  sons  of  Ometeuctli  sprinkled  the 
bones  with  their  blood;  and  these  men  lived  again, 
and  llie  sons  of  Ometeuctli  were  their  rulers  and 
fathers.  But  the  earth  was  dark, — it  was  night 
over  the  world,  and  the  only  light  was  the  fire 
which  they  kindled  and  kept  burning  in  the  vale 
of  Teotihuacan.  The  sons  of  Ometeuctli  pitied  the 
men  they  had  revived;  and,  to  give  them  light,  they 
burned  themselves  in  the  fire.  Ometeuctli,  their 
father,  then  placed  them  in  the  sky, — ^Tonatricli 
the  first-born,  to  be  the  suii,  Meztli  to  be  the  moon, 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  171 

and  the  others  to  be  stars.  So  they  haiifr  in  hea- 
ven, turned  to  fire :  and  men  built  j)yraniids  to 
them,  on  the  plaee  of  burning,  Micoatl,  llie  Field 
of  Death.*  They  are  very  good  gods,  Ibr  they 
shine  upon  us." 

"  Forget  these  idle  fables,"  said  Juan,  with  a 
gentleness  much  more  judicious  tlian  any  zeal 
could  have  been.  "  Forget,  too,  Mexitli,  Painalton, 
Quetzalcoatl,  Centeotl,  and  the  thousand  vain  be- 
ings of  imagination,  with  which  your  priests  have 
peopled  the  world.  Think  only  of  the  great  Teoll, 
whom  you  have  called  Ipalnemoani, — the  great 
God,  tlie  only  God, — for  there  is  no  other  than  He, 
and  the  rest  are  but  fables.  Yonder  moon  and 
stars  are  not  divinities,  but  great  globes  like  this 
on  which  we  live ;  and  to  worship  them  is  a  sin — 
it  angers  Ipalnemoani,  who  is  tlie  only  God, — the 
Creator, — whom  all  men  worshij),  though  under 
difterent  names.  Worship  but  Ipalnemoani,  and 
in  mode  as  I  will  tell  thee,  and  thou  art  already 
almost  a  Christian." 

"  But  is  not  Christ  anotlier  god  of  the  Spaniards  ?" 
said  the  maiden,  doubtfully. 

"  The  Son  of  God,  a  portion  of  God,  and  God 
himself,"  replied  the  Christian,  launching  at  once 
into  all  the  theological  metaphysics  with  wiiich  lie 
was  acquainted,  and  succeeding  in  confounding 
the  mmd  of  the  poor  barbarian,  without  being  very 
sensible  of  the  confusion  of  his  own.  Lut  if  he 
could  not  teach  her  how  to  distinguish  between 
categories,  not  reducible  to  order  and  consistency 
by  the  poor  aids  of  human  language,  he  was  able 
to  interest  her  in  the  fate  and  character  of  the  di- 

*  The  vale  of  San  Juan  de  Teotihuacan,  wliere  stand  the 
great  pyramids  of  the  Sun  and  Moon,  and  the  smaller  mounds 
erected  to  the  stars. 


172  YOUNG  lady's 

vine  Redeemer,  by  no  other  means  than  tliat  of 
relating^  his  history.  And  it  is  this  to  which  men 
must  chiefly  look  for  instruction,  belief,  and  reno- 
vation, without  reference  to  dogmas  and  creeds ; 
for  licrc  all  find  tlic  unanimit}^  of  belief  and  feel- 
ing, whicli  entitles  them  to  the  claims  of  fraternity. 

When  Juan  had  excited  her  sympathy  in  the 
character  of  the  Messiah,  he  began  to  discourse 
upon  the  object  and  the  ends  of  Jiis  mission.  But 
unfortunately  the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  with 
which  he  set  out,  had  in  it  something  extremely 
repugnant  to  the  rude  ideas  of  the  child  of  nature. 
It  inferred  a  native  wickedness  in  all,  to  be  ban- 
ished only  by  belief;  and  it  seemed  at  once  to  place 
her  in  an  humble  and  degraded  light,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  young  Christian. 

"  Wliat  has  Zelahualla  done,"  she  said,  with 
maidenly  pride,  "that  the  king's  brother  should 
make  her  out  wicked  ?" 

At  this  application  of  tlic  doctrine,  Juan  was 
somewhat  staggered  in  his  own  belief.  He  looked 
at  the  mild  eyes  of  tiie  catechumen,  beaming  as 
from  a  spirit  without  stain  and  without  guile,  and 
he  said  to  himself,  "  How  can  tliis  be  ?  for  she  has 
known  no  sin."  His  imagination  wandered  among 
the  moral  and  religious  precepts  stored  in  his  memo- 
ry, and  settled  at  last  with  the  triumph  of  a  contro- 
versialist, as  well  as  the  satisfaction  of  a  Christian, 
upon  the  first  rules  of  the  decalogue, — broken  in 
ignorance,  and  therefore,  he  doubted  not,  easily 
atoned.  He  told  lier  that  the  worship  of  false  gods 
was  a  sin,  and  homage  shown  to  idols  of  wood  and 
stone  a  deep  iniquity ;  and  these  being  common  to 
all  benighted  people,  he  satisfied  himself,  and  per- 
haps her,  that  they  were  unanswerable  proofs  of 
the  existence  of  natural  depravity.    But  a  stronger 


BOOK  OF  Piiosr.  173 

liglit  was  thrown  upon  tlic  niaiden's  mind,  when 
lie  showed  its  effects  in  the  scene  of  bloodshed, 
commenced  long  since  in  tlie  days  of"  her  sire,  and 
now  about  to  be  terniinated  in  a  war  of  massacre. 

"  He  of  whom  I  speak,"  he  said,  "came  into  the 
world,  in  order  that  these  things  should  cease.  He 
offers  men  peace  and  good-will;  and  when  men 
acknowledge  him  and  follow  his  commands,  peace 
and  good-will  will  reign  over  the  whole  world. 
Think  not,  because  my  countrymen  are  sometimes 
unjust,  and  often  cruel,  that  our  divine  Leader  is 
tlie  less  divine.  These  are  the  wickednesses  of 
their  nature,  not  yet  removed  by  full  or  just  belief; 
for  the  belief  of  some  is  insuthcient,  of  others  per- 
verted, and  some,  though  tliey  proless  it,  have  no 
belief  at  all.  Know,  then,  that  our  religion,  justly 
considered,  and  with  a  pure  mind  not  selfish,  has 
its  great  element  in  affection.  It  teaches  love  of 
heaven,  and,  equally,  love  of  man.  It  denounces 
the  wrong-doer,  who  is  as  a  fire,  burning  away  the 
cords  that  bind  men  together  in  happiness  ;  and  it 
exalts  the  good  man,  Avho  unites  his  fellows  in 
affection.  It  punislies  vicious  deeds  and  forbids 
evil  thoughts ;  for  with  these,  there  can  be  no  hap- 
piness and  peace.  This  it  does  upon  earth ;  and  it 
prepares  for  the  world  beyond  the  grave,  in  which 
no  human  passion  or  infirmity  can  disturb  the  per- 
fect purity  and  enjoyment,  of  which  the  immortal 
spirit  is  capable." 

Thus  he  conversed,  and  thus,  guided  by  the  na- 
tive bias  of  his  mind,  dwelt  upon  that  feature  of  our 
heavenly  faith,  of  which  it  requires  no  aid  of  en- 
tlmsiasm  to  perceive  the  amiableness  and  beauty. 
*'  Peace  and  good-will  to  all  .'"*   There  is  a  charm 

*  According  to  tlie  Vulgate,  the  good  tidings  of  great  joy 
offered  peace  onlj/  "  to  men  oigood-will,"  pax  hominibus  boiue 


174  YOUNG  lady's 

in  the  holy  sentence,  at  onee  the  watchword  and 
synopsis  of  reliuioii,  that  thrills  to  tlie  hearts  even 
of  those,  who,  \o  obtain  the  base  immortality  of 
renown,  arc  wiiling  to  exchange  it  for  the  war-cry 
of  the  barbarian,  the  V(S  victis  I  of  a  hero. 

Thus  far,  then,  the  heart  of  the  Indian  maiden 
was  sotlened,  and  tears, — not  of  penitence,  for  it 
never  entered  her  mind  that  she  had  any  thing-  to 
repent, — tears  of  gentle  and  pleasurable  emotion 
stole  into  her  eyes,  as  she  listened  to  tenets  ex- 
plained  by  one  so  revered  and  beloved. 

"  The  religion  that  my  lord  loves,  is  good ;  and 
Zelahualla  shall  know  no  other." 

"  God  be  praised  for  this  then,"  said  Juan,  fer- 
vently ;  "  for  now  is  the  desire  of  my  heart  ful- 
filled, mine  errand  accomplished ;  and  I  will  die, 
when  I  am  called,  cheerfully  ;  knowing  that  thou 
wilt  follow  me  to  heaven.  Now  do  I  perceive  that 
heaven  works  good  in  our  misfortunes.  The  mise- 
ries that  I  have  lamented, — the  hatred  of  Don  Her- 
nan,  the  malice  of  my  foes,  my  downfall,  my  con- 
demnation,— what  were  they  but  the  steps  which 
have  led  me  to  effect  thy  conversion  and  salvation  ? 
God  be  praised  for  all  things !  and  God  grant  that 
the  seeds  of  the  true  faith,  now  sown  in  thy 
heart,  may  grow  and  flourish,  till  transplanted  into 
paradise !" 

Thus  saying,  Juan  fell  upon  his  knees,  and 
invoked  blessings '  upon  the  proselyte,  who  knelt 
beside  him,  confirmed  greatly  in  her  new  creed  by 

voluntatis, — which,  whether  the  translation  be  right  or  wrong, 
undoubtedly  destroys  the  sublimity  of  the  conception,  by  narrow- 
ing down  the  benevolence  of  the  Deity,  and  deprives  of  the 
blessing  of  peace  that  majority  of  men,  who,  not  being  men  of 
good-will,  have  the  greatest  need  of  it. 


BOOK    OF   PROSE.  17.) 

the  evident  pleasure  licr  conversion,  if  it  could  be 
so  called,  had  given  him. 

"  Know  now,  Zelahualla,"  he  said,  as  lie  raised 
lier  from  the  ground,  and  folded  her  in  an  embrace 
that  had  more  of  tlie  gentle  affection  of  a  brother, 
than  the  ardent  passion  of  a  lover,  "that  now  thou 
art  dearer  to  me  than  all  the  world  beside.  Wliile 
tiiou  wert  a  worshipper  of  idols,  I  wept  for  thee ; 
now  that  tliou  art  a  Christian,  I  love  thee  ;  and 
through  this  storm  of  war,  that  is  gathering  around 
thee,  I  will  remain  to  protect  thee,  and,  if  need  be, 
to  perish  by  thy  side." 

"What  my  lord  is,  that  will  I  be,"  said  the 
young  princess,  with  such  looks  of  confiding  af- 
fection as  belong  to  the  unsophisticated  child  of 
nature — "  Yes,  Zelahualla  will  be  a  Christian, — 
Juan's  Christian," — for  she  had  been  long  since 
instructed  to  pronounce  the  name  of  her  young 
friend — "  and  she  will  think  of  none  but  him." 

Dr.  Bird.  - 


CONFIDENCE  AND  MODESTY. 


When  the  Gods,  knowing  it  to  be  for  the  benefit 
of  mortals  that  the  few  should  lead  and  that  the 
many  should  follow,  sent  down  into  this  lower 
world  Ignorance  and  Wisdom,  they  decreed  to 
each  of  them  an  attendant  and  guide,  to  conduct 
their  steps  and  facilitate  their  introduction.  To 
Wisdom  they  gave  Confidence,  and  Ignorance  they 
placed  under  tlie  guidance  of  Modesty.  Thus 
paired,  the  parties  travelled  about  the  world  for 
some  time  with  mutual  satisfaction. 

Wisdom,  whose  eye  was  clear  and  piercing,  and 


176  YOUNG  lady's 

commanded  a  lonjr  reach  of  country,  followed  her 
conductor  with  pleasure  and  alacrity.  She  saw  the 
windings  of  the  road  at  a  great  distance  ;  Jier  foot 
was  firm,  her  ardour  was  unbroken,  and  she  as- 
cended the  hill  or  traversed  the  plain  with  speed 
and  safety. 

Ignorance,  on  Ihe  other  hand,  was  short-sighted 
and  timid,  Wlien  she  came  to  a  spot  where  the 
road  branched  out  in  different  directions,  or  was 
obliged  to  pick  her  way  through  the  obscurity  of 
tlie  tangled  thicket,  she  was  firequently  at  a  loss, 
and  was  accustomed  to  stop  till  some  one  appeared, 
to  give  her  the  necessary  information,  which  the 
interesting  countenance  of  her  companion  seldom 
failed  to  procure  her. 

Wisdom,  in  the  mean  time,  led  by  a  natural 
instinct,  advanced  toward  the  temple  of  Science 
and  Eternal  Truth.  For  some  time  the  way  lay 
plain  before  her,  and  she  followed  her  guide  with 
unhesitating  steps ;  but  she  had  not  proceeded  far 
before  the  paths  grew  intricate  and  entangled;  the 
meeting  branches  of  the  trees  spread  darkness  over 
her  head,  and  steep  mountains  barred  her  way, 
whose  summits,  lost  in  clouds,  ascended  beyond 
the  reach  of  mortal  vision.  At  every  new  turn  of 
the  road  her  guide  urged  her  to  proceed ;  but  after 
advancing  a  little  way,  she  was  ollen  obliged  to 
measure  back  her  steps,  and  often  found  herself 
involved  in  the  mazes  of  a  labyrinth  which,  after 
exercising  her  patience  and  her  strength,  ended 
but  where  it  began. 

In  the  mean  time  Ignorance,  who  was  naturally 
impatient,  could  but  ill  bear  the  continual  doubts 
and  hesitation  of  her  companion.  She  hated  de- 
liberation, and  could  not  submit  to  delay.  At 
length  it  so  happened  that  she  found  herself  on  a 


BOOK   OF    PROSK.  177 

spot  where  three  ways  met,  and  no  indication  was 
to  be  found  which  inig-ht  direct  her  to  the  right 
road.  Modesty  advised  her  to  wait ;  and  she  had 
waited  till  her  patience  was  exhausted. — At  thai 
moment  Confidence,  who  was  in  disgrace  with 
Wisdom  for  some  false  steps  he  had  led  her  into, 
and  who  had  just  been  discarded  from  her  pres- 
ence, came  up,  and  offered  himself  to  be  her  guide. 
Ho  was  accepted.  Under  liis  auspices  Ignorance, 
naturally  swift  of  foot,  and  who  could  at  any 
time  have  outrun  Wisdom,  boldly  pressed  forward, 
pleased  and  satisfied  with  her  new  companion.  He 
knocked  at  every  door,  visited  castle  and  convent, 
and  introduced  his  charge  to  many  a  society 
whence  Wisdom  found  herself  excluded. 

Modesty,  in  the  mean  time,  finding  she  could  be 
of  no  further  use  to  her  charge,  offered  her  services 
to  Wisdom.  They  were  mutually  pleased  with  each 
other,  and  soon  agreed  never  to  separate.  And  ever 
since  that  time  Ignorance  has  been  led  by  Confi- 
dence,  and  Modesty  has  been  found  in  tlie  society 
of  Wisdom. 

Mrs.  Barbauld. 


ON  FEMALE  STUDIES. 


My  dear  young  Friend, 

If  I  had  not  been  afraid  you  would  feel  some 
little  reluctance  in  addressing  me  first,  I  should 
have  asked  you  to  begin  the  correspondence  be- 
tween us ;  for  I  am  at  present  ignorant  of  your  par- 
ticular pursuits :  I  cannot  guess  whether  you  are 
climbing  the  hill  of  science,  or  wandering  among 
12 


178  YOUNG    lady's 

the  flowers  of  fancy  ;  whether  you  are  stretching 
your  powers  to  embrace  the  jjlunetary  system,  or 
cxarniniii^^r  with  a  curious  eye  the  dehcate  veinings 
of  a  green  leaf,  and  the  minute  ramifications  of  a 
Bca-wced ;  or  whetlier  you  are  toiling  through  the 
intricate  and  thorny  mazes  of  graumiar.  Wliich- 
ever  of  these  is  at  present  your  employment,  your 
general  aim  no  doubt  is  the  improvement  of  your 
mind ;  and  we  will  therefore  spend  some  time  in 
considering  what  kind  and  degree  of  literary  at- 
tainments sit  gracefully  upon  the  female  character. 
Every  woman  should  consider  herself  as  sus- 
taining the  general  character  of  a  rational  being, 
as  well  as  tlie  more  confined  one  belonging  to  the 
female  sex;  and  therefore  the  motives  for  acquiring 
general  knowledge  and  cultivating  the  taste  are 
nearly  the  same  to  both  sexes.  The  line  of  separa- 
tion between  the  studies  of  a  young  man  and  a 
young  woman  appears  to  me  to  be  chiefly  fixed  by 
this, — that  a  woman  is  excused  from  all  profes- 
sional knowledge.  Professional  knowledge  means 
all  that  is  necessary  to  fit  a  man  for  a  peculiar 
profession  or  business.  Thus  men  study  in  order 
to  qualify  themselves  for  the  law,  for  physic,  for 
various  departments  in  political  life,  for  instructing 
others  from  the  pulpit  or  the  professor's  chair. 
These  all  require  a  great  deal  of  severe  study  and 
technical  knowledge ;  much  of  which  is  nowise 
valuable  in  itself,  but  as  a  means  to  that  particular 
profession.  Now,  as  a  woman  can  never  be  called 
to  any  of  these  professions,  it  is  evident  you  have 
nothing  to  do  with  such  studies.  A  woman  is  not 
expected  to  understand  the  mysteries  of  politics, 
because  she  is  not  called  to  govern ;  she  is  not  re- 
quired to  know  anatomy,  because  she  is  not  to 
perform  surgical  operations  ;  she  need  not  embar- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  179 

rass  herself  witli  theological  disputes,  because  she 
will  neither  be  called  upon  to  make  nor  to  explain 
creeds. 

Men  have  various  departments  in  active  life ; 
women  have  but  one,  and  all  vi^omen  have  the 
same,  differently  modified  indeed  by  their  rank  in 
life  and  other  incidental  circumstances.  It  is,  to 
be  a  wife,  a  mother,  a  mistress  of  a  family.  The 
knowledg-e  belonging'  to  these  duties  is  your  pro- 
fessional knowledge,  the  want  of  which  nothing 
will  excuse.  Literary  knowledge,  therefore,  in 
men,  is  often  an  indispensable  duty :  in  women  it 
can  be  only  a  desirable  accomplislmient.  In  women 
it  is  more  immediately  applied  to  the  purposes  of 
adorning  and  improving  the  mind,  of  refining  the 
sentiments,  and  supplying  proper  stores  for  conver- 
sation. For  general  knowledge,  women  have  in 
some  respects  more  advantages  than  men.  Their 
avocations  often  allow  them  more  leisure ;  their 
sedentary  way  of  life  disposes  them  to  the  domestic, 
quiet  amusement  of  reading ;  the  share  they  take 
in  the  education  of  their  children  throws  them  in 
the  way  of  books.  The  uniform  tenour  and  con- 
fined circle  of  their  lives  make  them  eager  to  di- 
versify the  scene  by  descriptions  which  open  to 
them  a  new  world ;  and  they  are  eager  to  gain  an 
idea  of  scenes  on  the  busy  stage  of  life  from  which 
they  are  shut  out  by  their  sex.  It  is  likewise  par- 
ticularly desirable  for  women  to  be  able  to  give 
spirit  and  variety  to  conversation  by  topics  drawn 
from  the  stores  of  literature,  as  the  broader  mirth 
and  more  boisterous  gaiety  of  the  other  sex  are  to 
them  prohibited.  As  their  parties  must  be  inno- 
cent, care  should  be  taken  that  they  do  not  stag- 
nate into  insipidity.  I  will  venture  to  add,  that  the 
purity  and  simplicity  of  heart  which  a  womjin 


180  YOU.NG    IJIDy's 

ought  never,  in  lier  freest  commerce  with  the 
world,  to  wear  off;  her  very  seclusion  Irom  tiio 
jarring  interests  and  coarser  amusements  of  so- 
ciety, tit  lier  in  a  peculiar  manner  for  the  worlds 
of  tancy  and  sentiment,  and  dispose  her  to  the 
quickest  relish  of  what  is  pathetic,  sublime,  or  ten- 
der. To  you,  therefore,  the  beauties  of  poetry,  of 
moral  painting,  and  all  in  general  that  is  comprised 
under  the  term  of  polite  literature,  lie  particularly 
open ;  and  you  pannot  neglect  them  without  neg- 
lecting a  very  copious  source  of  enjoyment. 

Languages  are  on  some  accounts  particularly 
adapted  to  female  study,  as  they  may  be  learnt  at 
liome  without  experiments  or  apparatus,  and  with- 
out interfering  v/ith  the  habits  of  domestic  life ;  as 
they  form  the  style,  and  as  they  are  ihe  immediate 
inlet  to  works  of  taste.  But  the  learned  languages, 
the  Greek  especially,  require  a  great  deal  more 
time  tlian  a  young  woman  can  conveniently  spare. 
To  the  Latin  there  is  not  an  equal  objection  ;  and 
if  a  young  person  has  leisure,  has  an  opportunity 
of  learning  it  at  home  by  being  connected  with 
literary  people,  and  is  placed  in  a  circle  of  society 
sufficiently  liberal  to  allow  her  such  an  accom- 
plishment, I  do  not  see,  if  she  has  a  strong  inclina- 
tion, why  she  should  not  make  herself  mistress  of 
so  rich  a  store  of  original  entertainment : — it  will 
not,  in  the  present  state  of  things,  excite  either  a 
smile  or  a  stare  in  fashionable  company.  To  those 
who  do  not  intend  to  learn  the  language,  I  would 
strongly  recommend  the  learning  so  much  of  the 
grammar  of  it  as  will  explain  the  name  and  nature 
of  cases,  genders,  inflection  of  verbs,  &c.;  of  which, 
having  only  the  imperfect  rudiments  in  our  own 
language,  a  mere  English  scholar  can  with  diffi- 
culty form  a  clear  idea.     This  is  tlic  more  neces- 


DOOK   OF    PROSE.  181 

fary,  as  all  our  grammars,  being-  written  by  men 
whose  early  stiuiJes  }iad  given  thcrn  a  partiality 
for  the  learned  languages,  are  Ibrnied  more  u])oii 
those  than  upon  the  real  genius  of  our  own  tongue 
I  was  going  now  to  mention  French,  but  per. 
ccive  I  have  written  a  letter  long  enough  to  fright- 
en a  young  correspondent,  and  for  the  present  1 
bid  you  adieu. 


French  you  are  not  only  permitted  to  learn,  but 
you  are  laid  under  the  same  necessity  of  acquiring 
jt  as  your  brother  is  of  acquiring  the  Latin.  Cus- 
tom has  made  the  one  as  much  expected  from  an 
accomplished  woman,  as  the  other  from  a  man 
who  has  had  a  liberal  education. 

If  after  you  have  learned  French  you  should 
wish  to  add  Italian,  the  acquisition  will  not  be  dif- 
ficult. It  is  valuable  on  account  of  its  poetry,  in 
which  it  far  excels  the  Frencli, — and  its  music. 
The  other  modern  languages  you  will  hardly  at- 
tempt, except  led  to  tJiem  by  some  peculiar  bent^ 

History  affords  a  v/ide  field  of  entertaining  and 
useful  reading.  The  chief  thing  to  be  attended  to 
In  studying  it,  is  to  gain  a  clear  well  arranged 
idea  of  facts  in  clironological  order,  and  illustrated 
by  a  knowledge  of  the  places  where  such  facts 
happened.  Nei^er  read  without  tables  and  maps: 
make  abstracts  of  what  you  read.  Before  you 
embarrass  yourself  in  the  detail  of  this,  endeavour 
to  fix  well  in  your  mind  the  arrangement  of  som« 
leading  facts,  which  may  serve  as  land-marks  U 
which  to  refer  the  rest  Connect  the  history  of  dif- 
ferent countries  togetlier.  In  the  study  of  history 
the  different  genius  of  a  woman,  I  imagine,  will 
show  itself.    Tiie  detail  of  battles,  tlie  art  of  sieges, 


182  YOUNG  lady's 

will  not  interest  her  so  much  as  manners  and  sen- 
timents ;  this  is  the  food  she  assimilates  to  herself. 

The  great  laws  of  the  universe,  the  nature  and 
properties  of  those  objects  which  surroimd  us,  it  is 
unpardonable  not  to  know  :  it  is  more  unpardona- 
ble to  know,  and  not  to  feel  the  mind  struck  with 
lively  gratitude.  Under  this  head  are  compre- 
hended natural  history,  astronomy,  botany,  experi- 
mental philosophy,  chemistry,  physics.  In  these 
you  will  rather  take  what  belongs  to  sentiment 
and  to  utility  than  abstract  calculations  or  difficult 
problems.  You  must  often  be  content  to  know  a 
thing  is  so,  without  understanding  the  proof.  It 
belongs  to  a  Newton  to  prove^  his  sublime  prob- 
lems, but  we  may  be  all  made  acquainted  with  the 
result.  You  cannot  investigate  ;  you  may  remem- 
ber. This  will  teach  you  not  to  despise  common 
things,  will  give  you  an  interest  in  every  thing  you 
see.  If  you  are  feeding  your  poultry,  or  tending 
your  bees,  or  extracting  the  juice  of  herbs,  with  au 
intelligent  mind  you  are  gaining  real  knowledge ; 
it  will  open  to  you  an  inexliaustible  fund  of  won- 
der end  delight,  and  effectually  prevent  you  from 
depending  for  your  entertainment  on  the  pooy 
novelties  of  fashion  and  expense. 

But  of  all  reading,  what  most  ought  to  engage 
your  attention  are  works  of  sentiment  and  morals. 
Morals  is  that  study  in  which  alone  both  sexes 
liave  an  equal  interest;  and  in  sentiment  yours  has 
even  the  advantage.  The  works  of  this  kind  often 
appear  under  tlie  seducing  form  of  novel  and  ro- 
mance :  here  great  care,  and  the  advice  of  your 
older  friends,  is  requisite  in  the  selection.  What- 
ever is  true,  however  uncouth  in  the  manner  or  dry 
in  the  subject,  has  a  value  from  being  true :  but 
fiction,  in  order  to  recommend  itself,  must  give  us 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  183 

la  belle  Nature.  You  will  find  fewer  plays  fit  for 
your  perusal  than  novels,  and  fewer  comedies  than 
tragedies. 

What  particular  share  any  one  of  the  studies  I 
have  mentioned  may  engage  of  your  attention  will 
be  determined  by  your  particular  turn  and  bent  of 
mind.  But  I  shall  conclude  with  observing,  that  a 
woman  ought  to  have  that  general  tincture  of  them 
all,  which  marks  tlie  cultivated  mind.  She  ought 
to  have  enough  of  tliem  to  engage  gracefully  in 
general  conversation.  In  no  subject  is  she  required 
to  be  deep, — of  none  ought  she  to  be  ignorant.  If 
she  knows  not  enough  to  speak  well,  she  should 
know  enough  to  keep  her  from  speaking  at  all ; 
enough  to  feel  her  ground  and  prevent  her  from 
exposing  her  ignorance;  enougli  to  hear  with  intel- 
ligence, to  ask  questions  with  propriety,  and  to 
receive  information  where  she  is  not  qualified  to 
give  it.  A  woman  who  to  a  cultivated  mind  joins 
that  quickness  of  intelligence  and  delicacy  of  taste 
which  such  a  woman  often  possesses  in  a  su])erior 
degree,  with  that  nice  sense  of  propriety  which 
results  from  the  whole,  will  have  a  kind  of  tact  by 
which  she  will  be  able  on  all  occasions  to  discern 
between  pretenders  to  science  and  men  of  real 
merit.  On  subjects  upon  which  she  cannot  talk 
herself,  she  will  know  whether  a  man  talks  with 
knowledge  of  his  subject.  She  will  not  judge  of 
systems,  but  by  their  systems  she  will  be  able  to 
judge  of  men.  She  will  distinguish  tlie  modest, 
the  dogmatical,  the  affected,  the  over-refined,  and 
give  her  esteem  and  confidence  accordingly.  She 
will  know  with  whom  to  confide  the  education  of 
her  children,  and  how  to  judge  of  their  progress 
and  the  methods  used  to  improve  them.  From 
books,  from  conversation,  from  learned  instructors. 


184  YouNQ  lady's 

slic  will  g-athcr  the  flower  of  every  science ;  and 
licr  luiiul,  in  assimilating'  everything  to  itself,  will 
adorn  it  witii  new  graces.  She  will  give  the  tone 
to  the  conversation  even  when  she  cliooscs  to  bear 
but  an  inconsiderable  part  of  it.  The  modesty 
which  prevents  her  from  an  unnecessary  display 
of  what  she  knows,  will  cause  it  to  be  supposed 
that  her  knowledge  is  deeper  than  in  reality  it  is: — 
as  when  the  landscape  is  seen  through  tlie  veil  of 
mist,  the  bounds  of  the  horizon  are  hid.  As  she 
will  never  o!)trude  her  knowledge,  none  will  ever 
be  sensible  of  any  deficiency  in  it,  and  her  silence 
will  seem  to  proceed  from  discretion  rather  than  a 
want  of  information.  Slie  will  seem  to  know  every- 
thing by  leading  every  one  to  speak  of  what  he 
knows ;  and  when  she  is  with  those  to  whom  she 
can  give  no  real  information,  she  will  yet  delight 
them  by  the  original  turns  of  thought  and  sprightly 
elegance  which  will  attend  her  manner  of  speaking 
on  any  subject.  Such  is  the  character  to  whom 
professed  scholars  will  delight  to  give  information, 
from  whom  others  will  equally  delight  to  receive 
it : — the  character  I  wish  you  to  become,  and  to 
form  wliich  your  application  must  be  directed. 
Mrs.  Barbauld. 


TRUE  MAGICIANS. 

TO    MISS    C. 


My  dear  Sarah, 

I  HAVE  often  reflected,  since  I  left  you,  on  the 
wonderful  powers  of  magic  exhibited  by  you  and 
vour  sister.  The  dim  obscurity  of  that  grotto  hol- 
lowed out  by  your  hands  under  the  laurel  hedge, 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  185 

where  you  used  to  mix  the  ingredients  of  your  in- 
cantations, struck  us  with  awe  and  terror;  aiid  the 
broom  wliich  you  so  often  brandislicd  in  your 
hands  made  you  look  very  hke  witches  indeed.  I 
must  confess,  liowever,  that  some  doubts  have  now 
and  then  arisen  in  my  mind,  whether  or  no  you 
were  truly  initiated  in  the  secrets  of  your  art;  and 
these  suspicions  gathered  strength  after  you  had 
suffered  us  and  yourself  to  be  so  drenched  as  we 
all  were  on  that  rainy  Tuesday ;  which,  to  say  the 
least,  was  a  very  odd  circumstance,  considering 
you  liad  the  command  of  the  weather. — As  I  was 
pondering  these  matters  alone  in  the  chaise  be- 
tween Epsom  and  London,  I  fell  asleep  and  had 
the  following  dream. 

I  thought  I  had  been  travelling  through  an  un. 
known  country,  and  came  at  last  to  a  thick  wood 
cut  out  into  several  groves  and  avenues,  the  gloom 
of  which  inspired  thoughtfulness,  and  a  certain 
mysterious  dread  of  unknown  powers  came  upon 
me.  I  entered  however  one  of  the  avenues,  and 
found  it  terminated  in  a  magnificent  portal,  through 
which  I  could  discern  confusedly  among  thick 
foliage,  cloistered  arches,  and  Grecian  porticoes, 
and  people  walking  and  conversing  among  the 
trees.  Over  the  portal  was  the  following  inscrip- 
tion :  "//ere  dwell  the  true  magicians.  Nature  is 
our  servant.  Man  is  our  pupil.  We  change,  toe 
conquer^  we  create." 

As  I  was  hesitating  whether  or  no  I  should  pre- 
sume to  enter,  a  pilgrim,  who  was  sitting  under 
the  shade,  otfered  to  be  my  guide,  assuring  me  that 
these  magicians  would  do  me  no  harm,  and  that  so 
fjir  from  having  any  objection  to  be  observed  in 
fJieir  operations,  they  were  pleased  with  any  op- 
portunity of  exhibiting  them  to  the  curious.    In 


186  YOUNG  lady's 

therefore  I  went,  and  addressed  the  first  of  the 
majo^icians  I  met  with,  who  asked  mo  whether  1 
liked  panoramas.  On  replying'  that  I  tliou^ht  them 
very  entertaining-,  she  took  me  to  a  little  eminence 
and  bade  me  look  romid.  I  did  so,  and  beheld  the 
representation  of  the  beautiful  vale  of  Dorking, 
with  Norbury-park  and  Box-hill  to  the  north,  Rie- 
gate  to  the  east,  and  Leith-tower  with  the  Surry 
hills  to  the  south.  Aflcr  I  had  admired  for  some 
time  the  beauty  and  accuracy  of  the  painting,  a 
vast  curtain  seemed  to  be  drawn  gradually  up,  and 
my  view  extended  on  all  sides.  On  one  hand  I 
traced  the  windings  of  the  Thames  up  to  Oxford, 
and  stretched  my  eye  westward  over  Salisbury 
Plain,  and  across  the  Bristol  Channel  into  tiae  ro- 
mantic country  of  South  Wales ;  northward  the 
view  extended  to  Lincoln  cathedral,  and  York  min- 
ster towering  over  the  rest  of  the  churches.  Across 
the  Sussex  clowns  I  had  a  clear  view  of  the  British 
Channel,  and  the  opposite  coast  of  France,  with  its 
ports  blockaded  by  our  fleets.  As  the  horizon  of 
the  panorama  still  extended,  I  spied  the  towers  of 
Notre  Dame,  and  the  Tuilleries,  and  my  eye  wan- 
dered at  large  over  "the  vine-covered  hills  and  gay 
regions  of  France,"  quite  down  to  the  source  of  the 
Loire.  At  the  same  time  the  great  Atlantic  ocean 
opened  to  my  view ;  and  on  the  other  hand  I  saw 
the  lake  of  Geneva,  and  the  dark  ridge  of  Mount 
Jura,  and  discovered  the  summits  of  the  Alps  co- 
vered with  snow ;  and  beyond  the  orange  groves 
of  Italy,  the  majestic  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  and  the 
smoking  crater  of  Vesuvius.  As  the  curtain  still 
rose,  I  stretched  my  view  over  the  Mediterranean, 
the  scene  of  ancient  glory,  the  Archipelago  studded 
with  islands,  the  shores  of  the  Bosphorus,  and  the 
gilded  minarets  and  cypress  groves  of  Coustanti- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  187 

nople.  Throwing  back  a  look  to  the  less  attractive 
north,  I  saw  pictured  the  rugged,  broken  coast  of 
Norway,  the  cheerless  moors  of  Lapland,  and  the 
interminable  desolation  of  the  plains  of  Siberia. 
Turning  my  eye  again  soutliward,  the  landscape 
extended  to  the  plains  of  Barbary,  covered  with 
date-trees ;  and  I  discerned  the  points  of  pyramids 
appearing  above  the  horizon,  and  saw  t)ie  Delta 
and  the  scvon-mouthcd  Nile.  In  short,  the  curtain 
still  rose,  and  the  view  extended  farther  and  fur- 
ther, till  the  panorama  took  in  the  whole  globe.  I 
cannot  express  to  you  the  pleasure  I  felt  as  I  saw 
mountains,  seas,  and  islands,  spread  out  before  me. 
Sometimes  my  eye  wandered  over  the  vast  plains 
of  Tartary,  sometimes  it  expatiated  in  the  savan- 
nahs of  America.  I  saw  men  with  dark  skins, 
white  cotton  turbans  wreathed  about  their  heads, 
and  long  flowing  robes  of  silk ;  others  almost  naked 
under  a  vertical  sun.  I  saw  whales  sporting  in 
the  northern  seas,  and  elepliants  travelling  amidst 
fields  of  maize  and  forests  of  palm-trees.  1  seemed 
to  have  put  a  girdle  about  the  earth,  and  was  grati- 
fied with  an  infinite  variety  of  objects  which  I 
thought  I  never  could  be  weary  of  contemplating. 
At  length,  turning  towards  tlie  magician  who  had 
entertained  me  with  such  an  agreeable  exhibition, 
and  asking  her  name,  she  informed  me  it  was 
Geography. 

My  attention  was  next  arrested  by  a  sorceress, 
who,  I  was  told,  possessed  the  power  of  calling  up 
from  the  dead  whomsoever  she  pleased,  man  or 
woman,  in  their  proper  habits  and  figures,  and 
obliging  them  to  converse  and  answer  questions 
She  held  a  roll  of  parchment  in  her  hand,  and  had 
an  air  of  great  dignity.  I  confess  that  I  felt  a  little 
afraid ;  but  having  been  somewhat  encouraged  by 


188  YOUNG  lady's 

the  former  exhibition,  I  ventured  to  ask  licr  to  give 
me  Ji  speeiinen  of  her  power,  in  ea.se  there  was 
nothiii^r  unlawful  in  it.  "  Whom,"  said  she,  "do 
you  wish  to  heliold  ?"  Aftt-r  eonsiderinjr  some 
time,  1  desired  to  see  Cieero,  tlie  Roman  orator. 
.She  made  some  talismanie  fifrures  on  the  sand,  and 
presently  lie  rose  to  my  view,  hia  neek  and  liead 
hare,  tin-  rest  ot  his  body  in  a  llowin;!,r  to;^^;!,  which 
lie  {Tiithered  round  him  with  one  hand,  and  stretch- 
in'T  out  the  other  very  jjraeefully,  he  recited  to  me 
one  (jf  his  orations  aj^-ainst  (Jatiline.  He  also  read 
to  me, — which  was  more  than  1  could,  in  reason, 
Jiave  e.\|)ected, —  several  of  liis  i'amiliar  letters  to 
Jiis  most  intimate  friends.  I  next  desired  that 
Jidius  C^nsar  mijn^ht  he  called  up:  on  which  he  ap- 
jieared,  his  hair  nicely  arraiijrcd,  and  the  lore  part 
of  his  head,  which  was  bald,  covered  with  wreaths 
of  laurel ;  and  he  very  ()i)li}i^iufj^ly  jjave  me  a  parti- 
cular account  ol'his  expedition  into  (iaul.  I  wished 
to  sec;  the  youtii  of  Maeedon,  but  was  a  little  dis- 
appointed in  his  fij.rure,  llir  he  was  low  in  stature 
and  held  his  h(;ad  awry  ;  liut  I  saw  him  manage 
IJueephalus  with  admirable  courajrc  and  address, 
and  was  allcrwards  introduced  with  him  into  the 
tent  of  Darius,  where  1  was  jrit  atly  pleased  with 
the  j^^enerosity  and  politincss  of  his  behaviour.  I 
afterwards  expressed  some  curiosity  to  sec  a  battle, 
if  I  mii^dit  do  it  with  safely,  and  was  gratified 
with  the  sea-fijrht  of  Actium.  I  saw,  after  the  first 
onset,  the  fjalleys  of  ('leopatra  turning  their  prows 
and  flyinir  from  the  battle,  and  Antony,  to  his  eter- 
nal shame,  (juitfin<r  tin;  en<ra<,rement  and  making 
sail  after  her.  I  then  wished  to  call  up  all  the 
kings  of  England,  and  they  appeared  in  order  one 
after  the  otlu^r,  with  their  crowns  and  the  insignia 
of  their  dignity,  and  walked  over  the  stage  for  my 


BOOK  OK  raosK.  ]89 

amusement,  much  like  the  descendants  of  IJanquo 
in  iMaebedi.  Tlu'ir  (|nefiis  iic.eoiiipanicd  them, 
Irailiiijr  tlicir  robes  upon  the  jrround,  and  tho 
bisho{M  with  their  mitres,  and  judfrcs,  and  jrcnc- 
rals,  and  eminent  persons  of  every  class.  1  asked 
many  qnestions  as  they  ])asse(i,  and  received  a 
great  deal  of  information  relative  to  tlio  laws, 
manners,  and  transactions  of  past  times.  1  did 
not,  however,  always  meet  with  direct  answers  to 
my  ([uestions.  For  instance,  when  I  called  up 
Homer,  and  after  some  other  conversation  asked 
him  where  ho  was  born,  he  only  said,  "  Guess  !" 
And  when  1  asked  Louis  the  Fourteenth  wlio  was 
tiic  man  in  the  iron  mask,  he  irowned  and  would 
not  tell  me.  I  took  a  jrirat  deal  of  i)l(;asnre  in  call- 
ing up  tlie  shadrs  of  dislingnished  people  in  dif- 
ferent ages  and  countries,  making  them  stand 
close  by  one  another,  and  comparing  their  manners 
and  costume.  Thus  1  measured  Catharine  of  Rus- 
sia against  Stnniramis,  and  Aristotle  against  Lord 
Bacon.  1  could  have  spc;nt  whole  years  in  conver- 
satioti  witli  so  many  celel)rated  persons,  and  pro- 
mised myself  that  1  would  oiten  fre(|uent  this 
obliging  magician.  Her  name,  1  found,  was  in 
heaven  Clio,  on  earth  llislonj. 

I  saw  another  who  was  making  a  charm  for  two 
friends,  one  of  whom  was  going  to  tliL'  East  Indies: 
Uiey  werb  bittejly  lamenting  that  when  they  were 
parted  at  so  great  a  distance  from  each  other,  tliey 
could  no  longer  conmnmieate  their  tiioughts,  Imt 
nmst  be  cut  oif  from  each  otlier's  socicity.  Pre- 
senting them  vvith  a  talisman  inscril)ed  witli  four- 
and-tv,'enty  black  marks,  "Take  this,"  she  said; 
"  I  have  breathed  a  voice  upon  it :  by  means  of 
this  talisman  you  shall  still  converse,  and  hear  one 
another  as  distinctly  when  lialf  the  globe  is  be- 


190  YOUNG    lady's 

tween  you,  as  if  you  were  talking  together  in  the 
same  room."  The  two  friends  thanked  her  for 
such  an  invaluable  present,  and  retired.  Her  name 
was  Abracadabra. 

I  was  next  invited  to  sec  a  whispering-gallery 
of  a  most  curious  and  uncommon  structure.  To 
make  the  experiment  of  its  powers,  a  young  poet 
of  a  very  modest  appearance,  who  was  stealing 
along  in  a  retired  walk,  was  desired  to  repeat  a 
verse  in  it.  He  applied  his  lips  to  the  wall,  and 
whispered  in  a  low  voice,  '■'■  Riira  mihi  etrigui  pla- 
ceant  in  vallibus  arnnes.''''  The  sound  ran  along 
the  walls  for  some  time  in  a  kind  of  low  whisper ; 
but  every  minute  it  grew  louder  and  louder,  till  at 
length  it  was  echoed  and  re-echoed  from  every  part 
of  the  gallery,  and  seemed  to  ba  pronounced  by 
a  multitude  of  voices  at  once,  in  different  lan- 
guages, till  the  whole  dome  was  filled  with  the 
sound.  There  was  a  strong  smell  of  incense.  The 
gallery  was  constructed  by  Fame. 

The  good  pilgrim  next  conducted  me  to  a  cave 
where  several  sorceresses,  very  black  and  grim, 
were  amusing  themselves  with  making  lightning, 
thunder,  and  earthquakes.  I  saw  two  vials  of  cold 
liquor  mixed  together,  and  flames  burst  forth  from 
them.  I  saw  some  insignificant-looking  black 
grains,  which  would  throw  palaces  and  castles  into 
the  air.  I  saw — and  it  made  my  hair  stand  on 
end — a  headless  man,  who  lifted  up  his  arm  and 
grasped  a  sword.  I  saw  men  flying  through  the 
air,  without  wings,  over  the  tops  of  towns  and  cas- 
ties,  and  come  down  unhurt.  The  cavern  was 
very  black,  and  the  smoke,  and  fires,  and  mephitic 
blasts,  and  sulphurous  vapours  that  issued  from  it, 
gave  the  whole  a  very  tremendous  appearance.  I 
did  not  stay  long,  but  as  I  retired  I  saw  Chemistry 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  ]91 

written  on  the  walls  in  letters  of  flame,  with  seve- 
ral other  names  which  I  do  not  now  remember. 

My  companion  whispered  me  that  some  of  these 
were  suspected  of  communication  with  the  evil 
genii,  and  that  the  demon  of  War  had  been  seen 
to  resort  to  the  cave.  "But  now,"  said  the  pilgrim, 
"  I  will  lead  you  to  enchanters  who  deserve  all 
your  veneration,  and  are  even  more  beneficent 
than  those  you  have  already  seen."  He  then  led 
me  to  a  cavern  that  opened  upon  the  sea-shore :  it 
blew  a  terrible  storm,  the  waves  ran  mountains 
high,  the  wind  roared,  and  vessels  were  driven 
against  each  other  with  a  terrible  shock.  A  fe- 
male figure  advanced  and  threw  a  little  oil  upon 
the  waves ;  they  immediately  subsided,  the  winds 
were  still,  the  storm  was  laid,  and  the  vessels  pur- 
sued their  course  in  safety.  "  By  what  magic  is 
this  performed  ?"  exclaimed  I.  "  The  magician 
is  Meekness,''^  replied  my  conductor :  "  she  can 
smooth  the  roughest  sea,  and  allay  the  wildest 
storm." 

My  view  was  next  directed  to  a  poor  wretch, 
Vi^ho  lay  groaning  in  a  most  piteous  manner,  and 
crushed  to  the  earth  with  a  mountain  on  his  breast; 
he  uttered  piercing  shrieks,  and  seemed  totally  un- 
able to  rise  or  help  himself  One  of  these  good 
magicians,  whose  name  I  found  was  Patience, 
advanced  and  struck  the  mountain  with  a  wand  ; 
on  which,  to  my  great  surprise,  it  diminished  to  a 
size  not  more  than  the  load  of  an  ordinary  porter, 
which  the  man  threw  over  his  shoulders,  with 
something  very  like  a  smile,  and  marched  off  with 
a  firm  step  and  very  composed  air. 

I  must  not  pass  over  a  charmer  of  a  very  pleas- 
ing appearance  and  lively  aspect.  She  possessed 
the  power  (a  very  useful  one  in  a  country  so  subject 


192  YOUNG  lady's 

to  fogs  and  rain  as'this  is)  of  gilding  a  landscape 
with  sunshine  whenever  she  breatlied  upon  it.  Her 
name  was  Cheerfulness.  Indeed  you  may  remem- 
ber that  your  papa  brought  her  down  with  liim  on 
that  very  rainy  day  when  we  could  not  go  out  at 
all,  and  he  played  on  his  flute  to  you,  and  you  all 
danced. 

I  was  next  struck,  on  ascending  an  eminence, 
with  a  most  dreary  landscape.  All  the  flat  coun- 
try was  one  stagnant  marsh.  Amidst  the  rushy 
grass  lay  the  fiend  Ague,  listless  and  shivering  :  on 
tlie  bare  and  bleak  hills  sat  Famine,  with  a  few 
shells  of  acorns  before  her,  of  which  she  had  eaten 
the  fruit.  The  woods  were  tangled  and  pathless ; 
tlie  howl  of  wolves  was  heard.  A  few  smoky  huts, 
or  caves,  not  much  better  than  the  dens  of  wild 
beasts,  were  all  the  habitations  of  men  tliat  pre- 
sented themselves.  "  Miserable  country  !*"  I  ex- 
claimed ;  "  step-child  of  nature  I"  "  This,"  said 
my  conductor,  "  is  Britain  as  our  ancestors  pos- 
sessed it."  "And  by  what  magic,"  I  replied,  "has 
it  been  converted  into  the  pleasant  land  we  now 
inhabit  ?"  "  You  shall  see,"  said  he.  "  It  has  been 
the  work  of  one  of  our  most  powerful  magicians. 
Her  name  is  Industry. ''''  At  the  word  she  ad- 
vanced and  waved  her  wand  over  the  scene.  Gra- 
dually the  waters  ran  off  into  separate  channels, 
and  left  rich  meadows  covered  with  innumerable 
flocks  and  herds.  The  woods  disappeared,  except 
what  waved  gracefully  on  the  tops  of  the  hills,  or 
filled  up  the  unsightly  hollows.  Wherever  she 
moved  her  wand,  roads,  bridges,  and  canals  laid 
open  and  improved  the  face  of  the  country.  A  nu- 
merous population,  spread  abroad  in  the  fields, 
were  gathering  in  the  harvest.  Smoke  from  warm 
cottages  ascended  through  the  trees,  pleasant  towns 


DOOK    OF    PROSE.  19.1 

and  villages  marked  the  several  points  ofdistanccv 
Last,  the  Thames  was  filled  witli  forests  of  masts, 
and  proud  London  appeared  with  all  its  display  of 
wealth  and  grandeur. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  the  pleasure  1 
received  from  this  exhilarating  scene,  or  the  car- 
riage having  just  got  upon  the  pavement,  which 
awakened  me ;  but  1  am  determined  to  write  out 
my  dream,  and  advise  you  to  cultivate  your  ac 
quaintance  with  all  the  true  Arts  of  Magic. 

Mrs.  Barbauld. 


PICNIC. 

Pray,  mamma,  what  is  the  meaning  oi'pic-nic  ? 
I  have  heard  lately  once  or  twice  of  apic-nic  supper, 
and  I  cannot  think  what  it  means ;  I  looked  for 
the  word  in  Johnson's  Dictionary,  and  could  not 
find  it. 

I  should  wonder  if  you  had  ;  the  word  was  not 
coined  in  Johnson's  time ;  and  if  it  had  been,  I 
believe  he  would  have  disdained  to  insert  it  among 
the  legitimate  words  of  tlio  language.  I  cannot  tell 
you  the  derivation  of  the  phrase ;  I  believe  pic-nic 
is  originally  a  chat  word,  and  was  first  applied  to 
a  supper  or  other  meal  in  wliich  tlic  entertainment 
is  not  provided  by  any  one  person,  but  each  of  the 
guests  furnishes  his  dish.  In  a  pic-nic  supper  one 
supplies  the  fowls,  another  the  fish,  another  the 
wine  and  fruit,  &,c.;  and  the}'  all  sit  down  together 
and  enjoy  it. 

A  very  sociable  way  of  making  an  entertainment 

Yes,  and  I  would  have  you  observe,  that  the 
principle  of  it  may  be  extended  to  many  other 
things.  No  one  has  a  riglit  to  be  entertained  gra- 
13 


194  YOUNG    LADY  S 

tis  in  society;  lie  must  expend,  if  he  wishes  to 
enjoy.  Conversiition,  particularly,  is  a  pic-nic  least, 
where  every  one  is  to  contribute  something-,  ac- 
cording to  his  genius  and  ability.  Different  talents 
and  acquirements  compose  the  different  dislies  of 
the  entertainment,  and  tlie  greater  variety,  the  bet- 
ter; but  every  one  must  bring  something,  for  soci- 
ety will  not  tolerate  any  one  long  who  lives  wholly 
at  the  expense  of  his  neighbours.  Did  not  you  ob- 
serve how  agreeably  we  were  entertained  at  Lady 
Lsabella's  party  last  night  ? 

Yes :  one  of  the  young  ladies  sung,  and  another 
exhibited  her  drawings ;  and  a  gentleman  told  some 
very  good  stories. 

True :  another  lady,  who  is  very  much  in  the 
fashionable  world,  gave  us  a  great  deal  of  anecdote ; 
Dr.  R.,  who  is  just  returned  from  the  continent, 
gave  us  an  interesting  account  of  the  state  of  Ger- 
many ;  and  in  another  part  of  the  room  a  cluster 
was  gathered  round  an  Edinburgh  student  and  a 
young  Oxonian,  who  were  holding  a  lively  debate 
on  the  power  of  galvanism.  But  Lady  Isabella 
herself  was  the  charm  of  the  party. 

I  think  she  talked  very  little;  and  I  do  not  recol- 
lect any  thing  she  said  which  was  particularly 
striking 

That  is  true.  But  it  was  owing  to  her  address 
and  attention  to  her  company  that  others  talked 
and  were  heard  by  turns ;  that  the  modest  were 
encouraged  and  drawn  out,  and  those  inclined  to 
be  noisy  restrained  and  kept  in  order.  She  blended 
and  harmonized  the  talents  of  each ;  brought  those 
together  who  were  likely  to  be  agreeable  to  each 
other,  and  gave  us  no  more  of  herself  than  was  ne- 
cessary  to  set  off  others.  I  noticed  particularly  her 
-g^Ood  offices  to  an  accomplished  but  very  bashful 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  105 

lady  and  a  reserved  man  of  science,  who  wished 
much  to  bo  known  to  each  other,  but  w  ho  would 
never  have  been  so  without  her  introduction.  As 
soon  as  she  had  fairly  cnj^aged  them  in  an  interest- 
ing conversation,  she  left  them,  regardless  of  lier 
own  entertainment,  and  seated  herself  l)y  poor  Mr. 

,  purely  because  he  was  sitting-  in  a  corner 

and  no  one  attended  to  hiui,  You  know  that  in 
chemical  preparations  two  substances  often  require 
a  third,  to  enable  them  to  mix  and  unite  together. 
Lady  Isabella  possesses  this  amalgamating  power: 
— this  is  what  she  brings  to  the  pic-nic.  I  should 
add,  that  two  or  three  times  I  observed  she  dexter- 
ously changed  topics,  and  suppressed  stories  which 
were  likely  to  bear  hard  on  the  profession  or  con- 
nexions of  some  of  the  company.  In  short,  the 
party  which  was  so  agreeable  under  her  harmo- 
nizing influence,  would  have  had  quite  a  different 
aspect  without  her.  These  merits,  however,  might 
easily  escape  a  young  observer.     But  I  dare  say 

you  did  not  fail  to  notice  Sir  Henry  B 's  lady, 

who  was  declaiming  with  so  much  enthusiasm,  in 
the  midst  of  a  circle  of  gentlemen  which  she  had 
drawn  around  her,  upon  the  beau  ideal. 

No,  indeed,  mamma;  I  never  heard  so  much 
fire  and  feeling : — and  what  a  flow  of  elegant  lan- 
guage !  I  do  not  wonder  her  eloquence  was  so 
much  admired. 

She  has  a  great  deal  of  eloquence  and  taste:  she 
has  travelled,  and  is  acquainted  with  the  best  works 
of  art.  I  am  not  sure,  however,  whether  the  gen- 
tlemen  were  admiring  most  her  declamation  or 
the  fine  turn  of  her  hands  and  arms  She  has  a 
different  attitude  for  every  sentiment.  Some  ob- 
servations which  she  made  upon  the  beauty  of  sta- 
tues, seemed  to  me  to  go  to  th,;  verge  of  what  a 


196  YOUNG  lady's 

modost  female  will  allow  herself  to  say  upon  such 
subjects, — but  she  has  travelled.  She  was  sensible 
tJiat  she  could  not  fail  to  gain  by  the  conversation 
while  beauty  of  form  was  the  subject  of  it. 

Pray,  wliat  did ,  the  great  poet,  bring  to  the 

pic-nic  ? — for  I  think  he  hardly  opened  his  mouth 

He  brought  his  fame.  Many  would  be  gratifioc 
with  merely  seeing  him  who  had  entertained  them 
in  their  closets ;  and  he  who  had  so  entertained 
tlicm  had  a  right  to  be  himself  entertained  in  that 
way  which  he  had  no  talent  for  joining  in.  liCt 
every  one,  I  repeat,  bring  to  the  entertainment 
something  of  the  best  he  possesses,  and  tlie  pic-nic 
tiiblo  will  seldom  fail  to  afford  a  plentiful  banquet. 
Mrs.  Barbaui.d. 


THE  TRIAL. 

The  day  of  trial  arrived — Mr.  Percy  came  up 
to  town,  and"  brought  Mrs.  Percy  and  Rosamond 
with  him  to  his  son  Alfred's,  that  they  might  aJV 
be  together,  and  hear  as  soon  as  possible  their 
fate. 

The  trial  came  on  about  three  o'clock  in  the 
nflcrnoon.  The  court  was  uncommonly  crowded 
Mr.  Percy,  his  son  Erasmus,  and  all  his  friends 
and  Sir  Robert  and  his  adherents,  appeared  on  op 
posite  sides  of  the  galleries. 

The  excellent  countenance  and  gentlemanlike 
demeanour  of  I\Ir.  Percy  were  contrasted  with  the 
dark,  inauspicious  physiognomy  of  Sir  Robert, 
who  sat  opposite  to  him,  and  wlio  was  never  tran- 
quil one  second,  but  was  contiimally  throwing 
notes  to  his  counsel,  beckoning  or  whispering  to 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  197 

his  attorney — while  convulsive  twitches  of  face 
and  licaci,  snutf  takinji;-,  and  iiandkerclilef  spread 
frequently  to  conceal  the  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenancc,  betrayed  the  malignant  flurry  of  his 
spirits. 

Alfred  conducted  his  father's  cause  in  the  most 
judicious  and  temperate  manner.  An  attempt  had 
been  made  by  Sir  Robert  to  prejudice  the  public 
against  Mr.  Percy  by  representing  him  as  the  do- 
scendant  of  a  younger  brother,  who  was  endea- 
vouring to  dispossess  the  heir  of  the  older  branch 
of  the  llimily  of  that  estate  which  belonged  to  him 
by  right  of  inheritance.  Alfred's  first  care  was  to 
put  the  court  and  the  jury  in  full  possession  of  the 
tiicts.  He  stated  that  "  his  father,  Lewis  Percy, 
plaintiff  in  tliis  case,  and  Robert  Percy,  hart.,  de- 
fendant, both  descended  from  Sir  John  Percy,  who 
was  their  grandfather.  Sir  John  outlived  both  his 
sons,  who  left  him  two  grandsons ;  Robert  was  the 
son  of  Jiis  eldest,  and  Lewis  of  his  youngest  son. 
Sir  John  had  two  estates,  one  of  them  paternal, 
which  went  in  the  ordinary  course  of  descent  to 
tlie  representative  of  the  eldest  son,  being  the  pre- 
sent Sir  Robert  Percy.  Sir  John's  other  estate,  in 
Hampshire,  which  came  to  him  by  his  wife,  ho 
conveyed,  a  short  time  before  his  death,  to  his 
youngest  grandson,  the  present  licwis  Percy,  who 
had  held  undisturbed  possession  of  it  for  many 
years.  But,  in  process  of  time.  Sir  Robert  Percy 
ruined  himself  by  play,  and  having  frequent  in. 
tercourse  with  Sharpe,  the  solicitor,  upon  some 
great  emergency  inquired  whether  it  was  not  pos»- 
sible  to  shake  the  title  of  his  cousin  Mr.  Percy's 
estate.  He  suggested  that  the  conveyance  might 
not  be  forthcoming;  but  Sir  Robert  assured 
Jiim  that  both  his  grandfatlier  and  the  present  Mr 


198  YOUNG  lady's 

Percy  were  men  of  business,  and  that  there  was 
little  likelihood  cither  that  the  deeds  should  be 
lost,  or  that  there  should  be  any  flaw  in  the  title. 
Afterward  a  fire  broke  out  at  Percy-hall,  which 
consumed  tliat  wing  of  the  house  in  which  were 
Mr.  Percy's  papers — the  papers  were  all  saved  ex- 
cejrt  this  deed  of  conveyance.  Mr.  Sharpe,  being 
accidentally  apprised  of  the  loss,  conveyed  the  in- 
.telligcnce  to  Sir  Robert.  He  immediately  com- 
menced a  suit  against  his  cousin,  and  had  finally 
succeeded  in  obtaining  a  verdict  in  his  own  fa- 
vour, and  possession  of  the  Hampshire  estate.  At 
tlic  time  when  Mr.  Percy  delivered  up  possession, 
and  quitted  Percy-hall,  in  consideration  of  the  ex- 
tensive improvements  which  he  had  made,  and  in 
consideration  of  his  giving  up  to  Sir  Robert,  plate, 
furniture,  wine,  horses,  and  equipages,  Sir  Robert 
had  promised  to  forego  whatever  claim  he  might 
have  upon  Mr.  Percy  for  the  rents  which  lie  had 
received  during  the  time  he  had  held  the  estate ; 
but,  afterward,  Sir  Robert  repented  of  having 
made  this  agreement,  broke  his  promise,  and  took 
out  a  writ  against  his  cousin  for  the  mesne  rents. 
They  amounted  to  an  immense  sum,  which  Mr. 
Percy  was  utterly  unable  to  pay,  and  he  could 
have  had  no  hope  of  avoiding  ruin  had  the  claim 
been  by  law  decided  against  him.  By  fortunate 
circumstances,  however,  he  had,  while  this  cause 
was  pending,  recovered  that  lost  conveyance, 
which  proved  his  right  to  the  Hampshire  estate. 
Of  this  he  had  apprised  Sir  Robert,  who  had  per- 
sisted, nevertheless,  in  holding  possession,  and  in 
liis  claim  for  the  mesne  rents.  The  present  action 
was  brought  by  Mr.  Percy  in  resistance  of  this 
unjust  claim,  and  for  the  recovery  of  his  property." 
Not  one  word  of  invective,  of  eloquence,  of  or 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  199 

nament,  or  of  any  attempt  at  pathos,  did  our  bar- 
rister  mix  witli  tins  statement.  It  was  his  object 
to  put  the  jury  and  the  court  clearly  in  possession 
of  tacts,  wliicli,  unadorned,  he  knew  would  appear 
■  stronger  than  if  encumbered  by  any  flowers  of 
oratory. 

Having  produced  the  deed,  conveying  the  Hamp- 
shire estate  to  his  father,  Alfred  called  evidence  to 
prove  the  signature  of  Sir  John  Percy  and  the 
handwriting  of  the  witnesses.  He  further  proved 
that  this  conveyance  had  been  formerly  seen 
among  his  father's  papers  at  Percy-hall,  showed 
it  had  been  recently  recovered  from  Mr.  Falconer's 
box  of  papers,  and  explained  how  it  had  been  put 
there  by  mistake ;  and  he  supported  this  fact  by 
the  evidence  of  Commissioner  Falconer,  father-in- 
law  to  the  defendant.  Alfred  rested  his  cause  on 
these  proofs,  and  waited,  anxious  to  know  what 
defence  the  defendant  was  prepared  to  make. 

To  his  astonisliment  and  consternation,  Sir  Ro- 
bert's counsel  produced  another  deed  of  Sir  Jolin 
Percy's,  revoking  the  deed  by  wliich  Sir  John  had 
made  over  his  Hampshire  estate  to  his  younger 
grandson,  Mr.  Percy ;  it  ajipearing  by  a  clause  in 
the  original  deed  that  a  power  for  this  purpose  had 
been  tlicrein  reserved.  This  deed  of  revocation 
was  handed  to  the  judge  and  to  the  jury,  that  it 
might  be  examined.  The  two  deeds  were  care- 
fully compared.  The  nicest  inspection  could  not 
discover  any  difference  in  the  signature  or  seal. 
When  Mr.  Friend  examined  them,  he  was  in  dis- 
may. The  instrument  appeared  perfect.  While 
the  jury  were  occupied  in  this  examination,  Mr. 
Friend  and  Alfred  had  a  moment  to  consult  to 
gather. 

"  We  are  imdone,"  w^hispered  Mr.  Friend,  "  if 


200  VOIJNG  lady'3 

they  establish  this  deed  of  revocation — it  sets  as 
•aside  for  ever." 

Neither  Mr.  Friend  nor  Alfred  had  any  doubt 
of  its  being  a  forgery,  but  those  who  had  plunged 
thus  desperately  into  guilt  would  probably  be  pro- 
vided with  perjury  stSfieient  to  support  their  in. 
iquity. 

"  If  we  had  been  prepared  1"  said  Mr.  Friend  ; 
"  but  how  could  we  be  prepared  for  such  a  stroke  ? 
Even  now,  if  we  hud  time,  we  could  summon  wit- 
nesses who  would  discredit  theirs,  but " 

"  Do  not  despair,"  said  Alfred :  "still  we  have  a 
chance  that  their  own  witnesses  may  cross  each 
other,  or  contradict  themselves.  Falsehood,  with 
all  its  caution,  is  seldom  consistent." 

The  trial  proceeded.  Alfred,  in  the  midst  of 
the  fears  and  sighs  of  his  friends,  and  of  the  tri- 
umphant smiles  and  anticipating  congratulations 
of  his  enemies,  continued  to  keep  both  his  temper 
and  his  understanding  cool.  His  attention  was 
fixed  upon  the  evidence  produced,  regardless  of 
the  various  suggestions  whispered  or  written  to 
him  by  ignorant  or  learned  advisers. 

William  Gierke,  the  only  surviving  witness  to 
the  deed  of  revocation  produced  by  Sir  Robert, 
was  the  person  on  whose  evidence  the  cause  prin- 
cipally rested.  He  was  now  summoned  to  appear, 
and  room  was  made  for  him.  He  was  upwards 
of  eighty  years  of  age:  he  came  slowly  into  court, 
and  stood  supporting  hiniself  upon  his  stall',  his 
Jiead  covered  with  thin,  gray  hairs,  his  countenance 
placid  and  smiling,  and  his  whole  appearance  so 
respectable,  so  venerable,  a?  to  prepossess  imme- 
diately the  jury  jafl,d  :(he  court  in  his  favour. 

Alfred  Percy  could  scarcely  believe  it  possible 
that  such  a  ^ap  ^  .this  could  be  the  person  sub- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  301 

orncd  to  support  a  forgery.  After  being  sworn, 
he  was  desired  to  sit  down,  vvliich  he  did,  bowing 
respectfully  to  the  court.  Sir  Robert  Percy's  coun- 
sel proceeded  to  examine  him  as  to  the  points  they 
desired  to  establish. 

"  Your  name,  sir,  is  William  Gierke,  is  it  not?" 

"  My  name  is  William  Gierke,"  answered  tlio 
old  man,  in  a  feeble  voice. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  this  paper  before  ?"  showing 
him  the  deed. 

"  I  did — I  was  present  when  Sir  John  Percy 
signed  it — he  bade  me  witness  it,  that  is,  write 
my  name  at  the  bottom,  which  I  did,  and  then  he 
said,  '  Take  notice,  William  Gierke,  this  is  a  deed, 
revoking  the  deed  by  which  I  made  over  my 
Hampshire  estate  to  my  youngest  grandson,  Lew- 
is Percy.'  " 

The  witness  was  going  on,  but  the  counsel  in- 
terrupted. 

"  You  saw  Sir  John  Percy  sign  this  deed — you 
are  sure  of  that  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"  Is  this  Sir  John  Percy's  signature  ?" 

"  It  is — the  very  same  I  saw  him  write ;  and 
here  is  my  own  name,  that  he  bade  me  put  just 
there." 

"  You  can  swear  that  this  is  your  handwriting  7" 

"  I  can — I  do." 

"  Do  you  recollect  at  what  time  Sir  John  Percy 
signed  this  deed  ?" 

"  Yes;  about  three  or  four  days  before  his  death." 

"  Very  well,  that  is  all  we  want  of  you,  Mr. 
Gierke." 

Alfred  Percy  desired  that  Gierke  should  be  de- 
tained  in  court,  that  he  might  cross-examine  him. 
The  defendants  went  on,  produced  their  evidence. 


202  YOUNG  lady's 

examined  all  their  witnesses,  and  established  all 

they  desired. 

Then  it  came  to  Alfred's  turn  to  cross-examine 
tlie  witnesses  that  liad  been  produced  by  his  ad- 
versary. When  William  Gierke  reappeared,  Al- 
fred regarding  him  steadfastly,  the  old  man's  coun- 
tenance chang-cd  a  little ;  but  still  he  looked  pre- 
pared to  stand  a  cross-examination.  In  spite  of 
all  his  efforts,  however,  he  trembled. 

"  Oh  I  you  are  trembling  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave  1"  said  Alfred,  addressing  him  in  a  low,  so- 
lemn tone  :  "  pause,  and  reflect,  while  you  are 
allowed  a  moment's  time.  A  few  years  must  be 
all  you  have  to  spend  in  this  world.  A  few  mo- 
ments may  take  you  to  another,  to  appear  before 
a  higher  tribunal — before  that  Judge  who  knows 
our  hearts,  who  sees  into  yours  at  this  instant." 

The  staff  in  the  old  man's  hand  shook  violently. 

Sir  Robert  Percy's  counsel  interrupted — said 
that  the  witness  should  not  be  intimidated,  and 
appealed  to  the  court. 

The  judge  was  silent,  and  Alfred  proceeded, 
"  You  know  that  you  are  upon  your  oath — these 
are  possibly  the  last  words  you  may  ever  utter 
— look  that  they  be  true.  You  know  that  men 
have  been  struck  dead  while  uttering  falsehoods. 
You  are  upon  your  oath — did  you  see  Sir  John 
Percy  sign  this  deed  ?" 

The  old  man  attempted  in  vain  to  articulate. 

"  Give  him  time  to  recollect,"  cried  the  counsel 
on  the  opposite  side  :  "  give  him  leave  to  see  the 
writing,  now  he  has  his  spectacles." 

He  looked  at  the  writing  twice — his  head  and 
hands  shaking  so  that  he  could  not  fix  his  specta- 
cles. The  question  was  repeated  by  the  judge. 
The  old  man  grew  pale  as  deatlj.    Sir  Robert  Per- 


BOOK  OF  PROSE.  203 

cy,  just  opposite  to  him,  cleared  his  tliroat  to  catch 
the  witness's  attention,  then  darted  at  him  such  a 
look  as  only  he  could  gfivc. 

"  Did  I  see  Sir  Jolui  Percy  sign  this  deed  ?"  re- 
peated William  Clerke  :  "yes,  I  did." 

"  You  hear,  my  lord,  you  hear,"  cried  Sir  Ro- 
hcrt's  counsel,  "  the  witness  says  he  did  ;  there  is 
no  occasion  further  to  intimidate  this  poor  old  man. 
He  is  not  used  to  speak  before  such  an  audience. 
There  is  no  need  of  eloquence — all  we  want  is 
truth.  The  evidence  is  positive.  ]My  lord,  with 
your  lordship's  leave,  I  fancy  we  may  dismiss 
him." 

'I'hey  were  goinjj  to  hurry  him  away,  but  Al- 
fred Percy  said  that,  with  the  permission  of  the 
court,  he  must  cross-examine  that  witness  further, 
as  tlie  whole  event  of  the  trial  depended  upon  the 
degree  of  credit  that  might  be  given  to  his  evi- 
dence. 

By  this  time  the  old  man  had  somewhat  reco- 
vered himself;  he  saw  that  his  age  and  reverend 
apj)earancc  still  prepossessed  the  jury  in  Jiis  fa- 
vour ;  and  Irom  their  looks,  and  from  the  whispers 
near  hiin,  he  learned  tliat  his  tremor  and  hesita- 
tion had  not  created  any  suspicion  of  guilt,  but 
had  been  attributed  rather  to  the  sensibility  of 
virtue  and  the  weakness  of  age.  And  now  that 
the  momentary  emotion  which  eloquence  had  pro- 
duced on  his  mind  had  subsided,  he  recollected  the 
bribe  that  had  been  promised  to  him.  He  was 
aware  that  he  had  already  sworn  what,  if  he  con- 
tradicted, might  sul)ject  him  to  be  prosecuted  for 
perjury.  He  now  stood  obstinately  resolved  to  per- 
severe in  his  iniquity.  The  first  falsehoods  pro- 
nounced and  believeJ,  the  next  would  be  easy. 

"  Your  name  is  William  Clerke,  and  this,"  said 


204  YOUNG  lady's 

Alfred  (pointing  to  tlic  witness's  signature),  "  is 
your  handwriting'  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  say  it  is." 

"  You  can  write,  then  ?"  (putting  a  pen  into  his 
liand  :)  "  be  so  good  as  to  write  a  few  words  in  the 
presence  of  the  court."  He  took  the  pen,  but  after 
making  some  fruitless  attempts,  replied,  "  I  am  too 
old  to  write ;  I  have  not  been  able  to  write  my 
name  these  many  years.  Indeed,  sir  !  you  are  too 
hard  upon  one  like  me.  God  knows,"  said  he, 
looking  up  to  heaven,  some  thought  with  feeling, 
some  suspected  with  hypocrisy — "  God  knows,  sir, 
I  speak  the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Have 
vou  any  more  questions  to  put  to  me  ?  I  am  ready 
to  tell  all  I  know.  What  interest  have  I  to  con- 
ceal  any  thing  ?"  continued  he,  his  voice  gaining 
strength  and  confidence  as  he  went  on  repeating 
tlie  lesson  which  he  had  been  taught. 

"  It  was  long,  a  long  while  ago,"  he  said,  "since 
it  had  all  happened  ;  but,  thank  Heaven,  his  me- 
mory had  been  spared  him,  and  he  remembered  alj 
that  had  passed,  the  same  as  if  it  was  but  yester- 
day. He  recollected  how  Sir  John  looked,  where 
he  sat,  what  he  said  when  he  signed  this  deed ; 
and,  moreover,  he  had  often  before  heard  of  a  dis- 
like Sir  John  had  taken  to  his  younger  grandson 
— ay,  to  that  young  gentleman's  father,"  looking 
at  Alfred  ;  "  and  I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  it — very 
eorry  there  should  be  any  dispute  in  the  family, 
for  I  loved  them  all,"  said  he,  wiping  his  eyes ; 
"  ay,  I  loved  'em  all,  and  all  alike,  from  the  time 
they  were  in  their  cradles.  I  remember,  too,  once, 
Sir  John  said  to  me,  William  Gierke,  says  he,  you 
are  a  faithful  lad — lor  I  was  a  lad  once " 

Alfred  had  judiciously  iillowed  the  witness  to  go 
on  as  far  as  he  pleased  with  his  story,  in  the  ex- 


BOOK    OF    PROSF..  205 

pectation  that  some  exagircration  and  contradic- 
tion would  appear  ;  but  the  judge  now  interrupted 
the  old  man,  observing-  that  this  was  nothing-  to 
tlie  purpose — that  he  must  not  take  up  the  time 
of  the  court  with  idle  tales ;  but  that  if  he  had 
any  thing-  more  to  give  in  evidence  respecting  the 
deed,  he  should  relate  it. 

The  judge  was  thought  to  be  severe;  and  the 
old  man,  alter  glancing  his  eye  on  the  jury,  bowed 
with  an  air  of  resignation,  and  an  appearance  of 
difficulty,  which  excited  their  compassion. 

"We  may  lot  liim  go  now,  my  lord,  may  not 
wc?"  said  Sir  IJobert  Percy's  counsel. 

"With  the  permission  of  his  lordship,  I  will 
ask  one  other  question,"  said  Alfred. 

Now  it  should  be  observed,  that  after  the  first 
examination  of  this  witness,  Alfred  had  heard  him 
say  to  Mr,  Shar])e,  "  They  forgot  to  bring  out  what 
I  had  to  say  about  the  seal."  To  vvliich  Sharpo 
had  replied,  "  Enough  without  it." 

Alfred  had  examined  the  seal,  and  had  observed 
that  there  was  something  underneath  it ;  through 
a  small  hole  in  the  parchment  he  saw  some- 
tiling  between  the  parchment  and  the  sealing- 
wax. 

"  You  were  present,  I  think  you  say,  Mr.  Gierke, 
not  only  when  this  deed  was  signed,  but  when  it 
was  sealed  ?" 

"  I  was,  sir,"  cried  Gierke,  eager  to  bring  out 
this  part  of  the  evidence,  as  it  had  been  prepared 
for  him  by  Sir  Robert;  "  I  surely  was  ;  and  I  re- 
member it  particularly,  because  of  a  little  remark- 
able circumstance  :  Sir  John,  God  bless  him !  1 
think  I  see  him  now.  My  lord,  under  this  seal,'* 
continued  the  old  man,  adtkcssing  himself  to  the 
judge,  and  putting  his  slirivcUed  finger  upon  the 


206  YOUNG  lady's 

seal,  "  under  this  very  seal  Sir  John  put  a  sixpence 
— and  he  eallcd  upon  me  to  observe  him  doing  it ; 
for,  my  lord,  it  is  my  opinion  he  thought  then  of 
what  might  come  to  pass — he  liad  a  sort  of  a  fore- 
boding of  this  day.  And  novi',  my  lord,  order  them, 
if  you  please,  to  break  the  seal — break  it  before 
them  all ;  and  if  there  is  not  the  sixpence  under 
it,  why  this  deed  is  not  Sir  John's,  and  this  is  none 
of  my  writing,  and,"  cried  he,  lifting  up  his  hands 
and  eyes,  "  I  am  a  Uar,  and  perjured." 

There  was  a  profound  silence.  The  seal  was 
broken.  The  sixpence  appeared.  It  was  handed 
in  triumph,  by  Sir  Robert  Percy's  counsel,  to  the 
jury  and  to  the  judge.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
longer  a  doubt  remaining  in  the  minds  of  the 
jury — and  a  murmur  of  congratulations  among 
the  partisans  of  Sir  Robert  seemed  to  anticipate 
the  verdict. 

"  'Tis  all  over,  I  fear,"  whispered  Friend  to  Al- 
fred. "  Alfred,  you  have  done  all  that  could  be 
done,  but  they  have  sworn  through  every  thing ;  it 
is  over  with  us." 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Alfred.  Every  eye  turned  upon 
him — some  from  pity,  some  from  curiosity,  to  see 
how  he  bore  his  defeat.  At  length,  when  there 
was  silence,  he  begged  to  be  permitted  to  look  at 
the  sixpence.  The  judge  ordered  that  it  should 
be  shown  to  him.  He  held  it  to  the  light,  to  ex- 
amine  the  date  of  the  coin  ;  he  discovered  a  faint 
impression  of  a  head  on  the  sixpence,  and  upon 
closer  inspection  he  made  out  the  date,  and  show- 
ed clearly  that  the  date  of  the  coin  was  later  than 
the  date  of  the  deed ;  so  that  there  was  an  abso- 
lute impossibility  that  this  sixpence  could  have 
been  put  under  the  seal  of  the  deed  by  Sir  John. 

The  moment  Alfred  stated  this  fact,  the  counsel 


YouxNG  lady's  207 

on  the  opposite  side  took  the  sixpence,  examined 
it.  threw  down  his  brief,  and  left  the  court.  Peo- 
ple looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment.  The 
judge  ordered  that  William  Gierke  should  be  de- 
tained, that  he  might  be  prosecuted  by  the  crown 
for  perjury. 

The  old  man  fell  back  senseless.  Mr.  Sharpe 
and  Sir  Robert  Percy  pushed  their  way  together 
out  of  court,  disclaimed  by  all  who  had  till  now 
appeared  as  their  friends.  No  further  evidence 
was  otFercd,  so  that  here  the  trial  closed.  The 
judge  gave  a  short  impressive  charge  to  the  jury, 
who,  without  withdrawing,  instantly  gave  their 
verdict  in  favour  of  the  plaintiff,  Lewis  Percy — a 
verdict  that  was  received  with  loud  acclamations, 
which  not  even  respect  to  the  court  could  restrain. 

Mr.  Percy  and  Alfred  hastily  shook  hands  with 
their  friends,  and  in  the  midst  of  universal  ap- 
plause hurried  away  to  carry  the  good  news  to 
Mrs.  Percy  and  Rosamond,  who  were  at  Alfred's 
house,  waiting  to  hear  the  event  of  the  trial. 

Neither  Alfred  nor  Mr.  Percy  had  occasion  to 
speak ;  the  moment  Mrs.  Percy  and  Rosamond 
saw  them,  they  knew  the  event. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Percy,  "  our  fortune  is  re- 
stored ;  and  doubly  happy  we  arc  in  having  re- 
gained  it,  in  a  great  measure,  by  the  presence  of 
mind  and  ability  of  my  son." 

His  mother  and  sister  embraced  Alfred  with 
tears  of  delight.  For  some  moments  a  spectator 
might  have  imagined  that  he  beheld  a  family  in 
deep  affliction.  But  soon  through  these  tears  ap- 
peared  on  the  countenance  of  each  individual  the 
radiance  of  joy,  smiles  of  affection,  tenderness, 
gratitude,  and  every  delightful  benignant  feeling 
of  the  human  heart. 


208  YOUNG    LADV'S 

"  Has  anybody  sent  to  Mrs.  Ilun^crford  and  to 
Lady  Jane  Granville  ?"  said  Mr.  Percy. 

"  iTcs,  yes,  messengers  were  sent  off  the  mo- 
ment the  verdict  was  given,"  said  Erasmus  :  "  I 
took  care  of  that." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  Rosamond,  "  that  Caroline  ia 
not  iicre  at  this  moment,  and  Godfrey." 

"  It  is  best  as  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Percy  ;  "  we  have 
til  at  pleasure  still  in  store." 

"  And  now,  my  beloved  children,"  said  Mr.  Per- 
cy, "  after  having  returned  tlianks  to  Providence, 
let  me  here,  in  the  midst  of  all  of  you,  to  whom  I 
owe  so  large  a  share  of  my  happiness,  sit  down 
quietly  for  a  few  minutes  to  enjoy  '  the  sober  cer- 
tainty of  waking  bliss.'  " 

Maria  Edgeworth. 


MISTAKEN  KINDNESS. 

Ann  Belson  had  lived  in  a  respectable  mer- 
chant's family,  of  the  name  of  Melbourne,  for 
many  years,  and  had  acquitted  herself  to  the  satis- 
faction of  her  employers  in  successive  capacities 
of  nurse,  house-maid,  and  lady's  maid.  But  it  was 
at  length  discovered  that  she  had  long  been  ad- 
dicted to  petty  pilfering ;  and,  being  emboldened 
by  past  impunity,  she  purloined  some  valuable 
lace,  and  was  detected ;  but  her  kind  master  and 
mistress  could  not  prevail  on  themselves  to  give 
up  the  tender  nurse  of  their  children  to  the  just 
rigour  of  the  law,  and  as  their  children  themselves 
could  not  be;ir  to  liavo  "  poor  Ann  sent  to  gaol," 
they  resolved  to  punish  her  in  no  other  manner 
than  by  turning  lu;r  away  wUhout  a  character^  as 


DOOK    OF   PROSE.  209 

the  common  plirasc  is.  But  without  a  character 
she  could  not  procure  anotlicr  service,  and  might 
be  thus  consigned  to  misci-y  and  ruin.  Tliis  idea 
was  insup[K>rtahlc !  Jlowcver  she  might  deserve 
punishment,  they  shrunk  from  inflicting  it !  and 
they  resolved  to  keep  Ann  Belson  themselves,  as 
they  could  not  recommend  her  conscientiously  to 
any  one  else.  This  was  a  truly  benevolent  action ; 
because,  if  she  continued  to  sin,  they  alone  were 
cY{)osed  to  suffer  from  her  fault.  But  they  virtu- 
ously resolved  to  put  no  further  temptation  in  her 
way,  and  to  guard  her  against  herself,  by  unre- 
mitting vigilance. 

During  tiic  lour  succeeding  years,  Ann  Belson's 
honesty  was  so  entirely  without  a  stain,  that  her 
benevolent  friends  were  convinced  that  her  peni- 
tcncc  was  sincere,  and  congratulated  themselves 
tJiat  they  had  treated  her  with  such  lenity. 

At  this  period  tlie  j>ressurc  of  the  times,  and 
losses  in  trade,  produced  a  change  in  the  circum- 
stances of  the  Melbournes  ;  and  retrenchment  be- 
came necessary.  They  therefore  felt  it  right  to 
discharge  some  of  their  servants,  and  particularly 
the  lady's  maid. 

The  grateful  Ann  would  not  hear  of  this  dis- 
missal.  She  insisted  on  remaining  on  any  terms, 
and  in  any  situation  ;  nay,  she  declared  her  willing- 
ness to  live  with  her  indulgent  friends  for  nothing; 
but,  as  they  were  too  generous  to  accept  her  ser- 
vices at  so  great  a  disadvantage  to  herself,  especial- 
ly as  slic  had  poor  relations  to  maintain,  they  re- 
solved to  procure  her  a  situation ;  and  having 
heard  of  a  very  advantageous  one,  for  which  she 
was  admirably  calculated,  they  insisted  on  her  try- 
ing  to  procure  it. 

"  But  what  shall  we  do,  my  dear,"  said  the  wife 
U 


?W  YOUNG    lady's 

to  her  husband,  "  conccnung'  Ann's  cliaractcr? 
Must  wc  tell  the  whole  truth  ?  As  slic  has  been 
unifonnly  honest  duriiijiT  the  last  four  years,  should 
we  not  he  justified  in  eoiicealiiinf  her  limit?"  "Yes; 
I  think,  at  least  I  hope  so,"  replied  he.  "  Still,  as 
she  was  dishonest  more  years  than  she  has  now 
been  honest,  I  really  ....  I  ....  it  is  a  very  puz- 
zling- question,  Charlotte ;  and  I  am  but  a  weak 
casuist."  A  stronjr  Christian  might  not  have  felt 
the  point  so  dilBeult.  But  the  Melbournes  had  not 
studied  serious  things  deeply ;  and  the  result  of 
tlic  consultation  was,  tliat  Ann  Belson's  past  faults 
should  be  concealed,  if  jwssible. 

And  possible  it  was.  Lady  Baryton,  the  young 
and  noble  bride  who  wislied  to  liire  her,  was  a 
thoughtless,  careless  woman  of  fashion ;  and,  as 
she  learned  that  Ann  could  make  dresses,  and 
dress  hair  to  admiration,  she  made  few  other  in- 
quiries ;  and  Ann  was  installed  in  her  new  place. 

It  was,  alas  !  tlic  most  improper  of  places,  even 
for  a  sincere  jjcnitcnt,  like  Ann  I3elson  ;  for  it  was 
a  place  of  the  most  dangerous  trust.  Jewels,  laces, 
ornaments  of  all  kinds,  were  not  only  continually 
exposed  to  her  eyes,  but  placed  under  her  especial 
care.  Not  those  alone.  When  her  lady  returned 
home  from  a  run  of  good  luck  at  loo,  a  reticule, 
containing  bank-notes  and  sovereigns,  was  emptied 
into  an  unlocked  drawer ;  and  Ann  was  told  how 
fortunate  her  lady  had  been.  The  first  time  that 
this  heedless  woman  acted  thus,  the  poor  Ann 
begged  she  would  lock  up  her  money.  "  Not  I ; 
It  is  too  much  trouble;  and  why  should  I?" — 
"  Because,  my  lady,  it  is  not  right  to  leave  money 
about ;  it  may  be  stolen."  — "  Nonsense  !  who 
should  steal  it  ?  I  know  you  must  be  honest ;  the 
Melbournes   gave   you   such   a  high   character." 


DOOK    OF    PROSE.  211 

Here  Ann  turned  a\v;iy  in  ajj-ony  and  confusion. 
''But,  my  lady,  llic  other  servants,"  she  resumed 
in  a  faint  vuiee.  "  Pray,  what  business  liave  the 
other  servants  at  my  drawers  ? — However,  do  you 
lock  up  the  drawer,  and  keep  tlie  key." — "  No  ; 
keep  it  ijoitrsclf,  my  lady." — "  What,  1  ^ro  about 
with  keys,  like  a  house-keeper  ?  Take  it,  I  say  1" 
Then  flinirinir  the  key  down,  she  went  sinjriunr 
out  of  the  room,  little  thinkintr  to  what  peril,  tern- 
poral  and  sj)iritual,  sl»e  was  exposing  a  hiiplcss 
fellow-creature. 

For  some  minutes  aflcr  this  new  danger  had 
opened  uj)on  her,  Ann  sat  leaning'  on  her  hands, 
absorbed  in  painful  meditation,  and  connnuning 
seriously  with  her  own  heart ;  nay,  she  even  pray- 
ed for  a  few  moments  to  be  delivered  from  evil ; 
but  the  next  minute  she  was  ashamed  of  her  own 
self-distrust,  and  tried  to  resume  her  business  with 
her  usual  alacrity. 

A  few  evenin{(s  afterwards,  her  lady  broupcht  her 
reticule  home,  and  ^ave  it  to  Ann,  filled  as  before. 
"  I  conclude,  my  lady,  you  know  how  niuch 
money  is  in  this  purse." — "  I  did  know  ;  but  I 
have  forgotten."  —  "Then  let  me  tell  it."  —  "No, 
no;  nonsense  I"  she  replied  as  she  left  the  room: 
"  lock  it  up,  and  then  it  will  be  safe,  you  know,  as 
I  can  trust  you."  Ann  sighed  deeply,  but  n^peated 
within  herself,  "  Yes,  yes;  I  am  certainly  now  to 
be  trusted ;"  but,  as  she  said  this,  she  saw  two 
sovereigns  on  the  carpet,  which  she  had  dropped 
out  of  the  reticule  in  emptying  it,  and  had  locked 
the  drawer  without  perceiving.  Aim  felt  fluttered 
when  she  discovered  them  ;  but,  takinjr  them  up, 
resolutely  felt  fur  the  key  to  add  them  to  tiie 
others ; — but  the  image  of  her  recently  widowed 
sister,  and  her  large  destitute  family,  rose  before 


212  YOUNG  lady's 

her,  and  she  thought  she  would  not  return  them, 
hut  ask  her  lady  to  give  them  to  the  poor  widow. 
But  then,  her  lady  liad  already  been  very  bountiful 
to  lier,  and  she  would  not  ask  her ;  however,  she 
would  consider  the  matter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  it 
was  intended  she  should  have  the  sovereigns ;  for 
tlicy  were  separated  from  the  rest,  as  if  for  her. 
Alas  I  it  would  have  been  safer  for  her  to  believe 
tliat  they  were  left  there  as  a  snare  to  try  her 
penitence,  and  her  faith ;  but  she  took  a  different 
view  of  it ;  she  picked  up  tiie  gold,  then  laid  it 
down ;  and  long  and  severe  was  the  conflict  in  her 
heart  between  good  and  evil. 

We  weep  over  the  woes  of  romance ;  we  shed 
wellmotived  tears  over  the  sorrows  of  real  life,  but, 
where  is  the  fiction,  however  highly  wrought,  and 
where  the  sorrows,  however  acute,  that  can  deserve 
our  pity  and  our  sympathy  so  strongly,  as  the 
agony  and  conflicts  of  a  penitent,  yet  tempted  soul  I 
Of  a  soul  that  has  turned  to  virtue,  but  is  as  forci- 
bly pulled  back  again  to  vice, — that  knows  its 
own  danger,  without  power  to  hurry  from  it ;  till, 
-"'"^dseinated  by  the  glittering  bait,  as  the  bird  by  the 
rattlesnake,  it  yields  to  its  fatal  allurements,  re- 
gardless  of  consequences !  It  was  not  without 
many  a  heartache,  many  a  struggle,  that  Ann  Bel- 
son  gave  way  to  the  temptation,  and  put  the  gold 
in  her  pocket ;  and  when  she  had  done  so,  she  was 
told  her  sister  was  ill,  and  had  sent  to  beg  she 
would  come  to  her,  late  as  it  was.  Accordingly, 
when  her  lady  was  in  bed,  she  obtained  leave  to 
go  to  her,  and  while  she  relieved  her  sister's  wants 
with  the  two  purloined  sovereigns,  the  poor  thing 
almost  fancied  that  she  had  done  a  good  action  I 
Oh  !  never  is  sin  so  dangerous  as  when  it  has 
allured  us  in  the  sliape  of  a  deed  of  benevolence. 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  213 

It  had  so  allured  the  Melbcnirnes  when  they  con- 
cealed  Ann's  faults  from  Lady  IJaryton  ;  and  its 
bitter  fruits  were  only  too  fast  preparing. 

"  Ce  n''est  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coute  ;"  says 
the  proverb,  or  "  the  first  step  is  the  only  difficult 
one."  The  next  time  her  lady  brought  her  win- 
nings to  her,  Ann  pursued  a  new  plan ;  she  insist- 
ed on  telling  the  money  over ;  but  took  care  to 
make  it  less  than  it  was,  by  two  or  three  pounds. 
Not  long  after,  she  told  Lady  Baryton  that  she 
must  have  a  new  lock  put  on  the  drawer  that  held 
the  money,  as  she  had  certainly  dropped  the  key 
someichere ;  and  that,  before  she  missed  it,  some 
one,  she  was  sure,  had  been  trying  at  the  lock ; 
for  it  was  evidently  hampered  the  last  time  she 
unlocked  it.  "  Well,  then,  get  a  new  lock,"  replied 
her  careless  mistress ;  "  however,  let  the  drawer 
be  forced  now ;  and  then  we  had  better  tell  over 
tlie  money."  The  drawer  was  forced  ;  they  told 
the  money  ;  and  even  Lady  Baryton  was  conscious 
that  some  of  it  was  missing.  But,  the  missintr 
key,  and  hampered  lock,  exonerated  Ann  from 
suspicion  ;  especially  as  Ann  owned  that  she  had 
discovered  the  loss  before  ;  and  declared  that,  had 
not  her  lady  insisted  on  telling  over  tlie  money, 
she  had  intended  to  replace  it  gradually  ;  becauSo 
she  felt  herself  responsible ;  while  Lady  Baryton, 
satisfied  and  deceived,  recommended  her  to  be  on 
the  watch  for  the  thief,  and  soon  forgot  the  whole 
circumstance. 

Lady  Baryton  thought  herself,  and  perhaps  she 
was,  a  woman  of  feeling.  She  never  rcKsl  the  Old- 
Bailey  convictions  without  mourning  over  the 
prisoners  condemned  to  death ;  and  never  read  an 
account  of  an  execution  without  shuddering.  Still, 
from  want  of  reflection,   and   a  high-principled 


214  YOUNG    lady's 

sense  of  what  we  owe  to  others,  especially  to  those 
who  arc  the  members  of  our  own  houseliold,  she 
never  for  one  moment  troubled  herself  to  remem- 
ber that  she  was  daily  tlirowing  temptations  in  the 
way  of  a  servant  to  commit  the  very  faults  which 
led  those  convicts,  whom  she  pitied,  to  the  fate 
which  she  deplored.  Alas  !  what  have  those  per- 
sons to  answer  for,  in  every  situation  of  life,  who 
consider  their  dependants  and  servants  merely  as 
such,  without  remembering'  that  tliey  are,  like 
themsclvcp,  heirs  of  the  invisible  world  to  come ; 
and  that,  if  they  take  no  pains  to  enlig-hten  their 
minds,  in  order  to  save  their  immortal  souls,  they 
should,  at  least,  be  careful  never  to  endanger  them. 
In  a  few  weeks  after  the  dialogue  given  above, 
Lady  Baryton  bought  some  strings  of  pearls  at  an 
India  sale  ;  and  having,  on  her  way  thence,  shown 
them  to  her  jeweller,  that  he  might  count  them, 
and  see  if  there  were  enougli  to  make  a  pair  of 
bracelets,  she  brought  them  home,  because  she 
could  not  yet  afford  proper  clasps  to  fasten  them  ; 
and  these  were  committed  to  Ann's  care.  But,  as 
Lord  Baryton,  the  next  week,  gave  his  lady  a  pair 
of  diamond  clasps,  she  sent  the  pearls  to  be  made 
up  immediately.  In  the  evening,  however,  the 
jeweller  came  to  tell  her  that  there  were  two 
strings  less  than  when  she  brought  them  before. 
"  Then  they  must  have  been  stolen !"  she  exclaim- 
ed ;  "  and  now  I  remember  that  Belson  told  me 
she  was  sure  there  was  a  thief  in  the  house." — 
"  Arc  you  sure,"  said  Lord  Baryton,  "  that  Belson 
is  not  the  thief  herself ?" — "Impossible!  I  had 
such  a  character  of  her !  and  I  have  trusted  her 
implicitly !" — "  It  is  not  right  to  tempt  even  the 
raost  honest,"  replied  Lord   Baryton;    "but  we 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  215 

must  have  strict  search  made ;  and  all  the  servants 
must  be  examined." 

They  were  so ;  but,  as  Ann  Bclson  was  not  a 
hardened  offender,  she  soon  betrayed  herself  by 
her  evident  misery  and  terror ;  and  was  committed 
to  prison  on  her  own  full  confession ;  but  she 
could  not  help  exclaiming-,  in  the  agony  of  her 
heart,  "  Oh,  my  lady  !  remember  that  I  conjured 
you  not  to  trust  me !"  and  Lady  Baryton's  heart 
reproaclied  her,  at  least  for  some  hours.  There 
were  other  hearts  also  that  experienced  self-re- 
proach, and  of  a  far  longer  duration ;  for  the  Mel- 
bournes,  when  they  heard  what  had  happened,  saw 
that  the  seeming  benevolence  of  their  concealment 
had  been  a  real  injury,  and  had  ruined  her  whom 
they  meant  to  save.  They  saw  that  had  they  told 
Lady  Baryton  the  truth,  that  lady  would  either 
not  have  hired  her,  in  spite  of  her  skill,  or  she 
would  have  taken  care  not  to  put  her  in  situations 
calculated  to  tempt  her  cupidity.  But,  neither 
Lady  Baryton's  regrets,  nor  self-reproach,  nor  the 
greater  agonies  of  the  Melbournes,  could  alter  or 
avert  the  course  of  justice  ;  and  Ann  Belson  was 
condemned  to  death.  She  was,  however,  strongly 
recommended  to  mercy,  both  by  the  jury  and  the 
noble  prosecutor ;  and  her  conduct  in  prison  was 
so  exemplary,  so  indicative  of  tlie  deep  contrition 
of  a  trembling,  humble  Christian,  tliat,  at  length, 
the  intercession  was  not  in  vain ;  and  the  Mel- 
bournes Jiad  the  comfort  of  carrying  to  her  what 
was  to  ihem,  at  least,  joyful  news ;  namely,  that 
her  sentence  was  commuted  for  transportation. 

Yet,  even  this  mercy  was  a  severe  trial  to  the 
self-judged  Melbournes  ;  since  they  had  tlie  misery 
of  seeing  the  affectionate  nurse  of  their  cliildren, 
tlie  being  endeared  to  tliem  by  many  years  of 


21 G  YOUNG  lady's  , 

iiclivc  services,  torn  from  all  the  tender  ties  of 
txistcncc,  and  exiled  for  life  as  a  lelon  to  a  distant 
land !  exiled  too,  for  a  crime  which,  had  they  per- 
formed their  social  duty,  she  might  never  have 
committed.  But  the  pain  of  mind  which  they 
endured  on  this  lamentable  occasion  was  not 
thrown  away  on  them  ;  as  it  awakened  them  to 
serious  reflection  ;  they  learned  to  remember,  and 
to  teach  their  children  to  remember,  the  holy 
command,  "  that  we  are  not  to  do  evil,  that  good 
may  come  ;"  and  that  no  deviation  from  truth  and 
ingenuousness  can  be  justified,  even  if  it  claims 
for  itself  the  plausible  title  of  the  active  or  passive 
ue  of  benevolkxce. 

Mrs.  Opie. 


ARABELLA  JOHNSON. 

Lady  Arabell.\  Johnson  was  the  daughter  of 
the  proud  Earl  of  Lincoln.  She  was  an  exceed- 
ingly beautiful  girl,  and  her  father  cherished  the 
hope  of  seeing  her  united  to  a  nobleman  of  the  first 
rank.  But  there  had  been  a  different  path  ap- 
pointed her  ;  and  it  seemed  not  among  the  least 
extraordinary  incidents  marking  her  fortune,  that 
her  father  consented,  notwithstanding  his  ambiti- 
ous projects,  that  she  should  marry  Mr.  Johnson. 
He  was,  to  be  sure,  very  rich,  and  connected  with 
families  of  high  rank ;  but  he  had  no  title  in  pos- 
session or  expectancy. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  naturally  of  a  contemplative 
character ;  serious  in  his  deportment,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  thought  on  his  mild  countenance, 
which  people,  who  for  the  first  time  beheld  him, 
termed  sadness.     Yet  his  heart  was  warm  and 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  217 

frank ;  and  when,  in  intercourse  with  his  friends, 
he  threw  off  the  reserve  which  proceeded  more  from 
excess  of  feeUng  than  a  want  of  sympathy  with 
his  fellow-creatures,  few  were  so  agreeable,  or  so 
beloved  in  society,  as  this  amiable  man.  His  wife, 
the  Lady  Arabella,  on  the  contrary,  was  of  a  joy- 
ous spirit.  It  seemed  as  if  no  blig-ht  of  sorrow  had 
ever  fallen  on  her,  and  that  she  was  happy  because 
she  was  innocent.  Even  the  most  rigid  and  gloomy 
Christians  never  objected  to  her  gaiety ;  they  ap- 
peared to  feel  that  her  gladness  proceeded  from  a 
guileless  heart. 

The  pensiveness  on  her  husband's  brow  might 
sojnetimes  seem  too  deeply  shadowed,  contrasted, 
as  it  was,  with  the  sunshine  of  her  bright  face,  tc 
promise  pcrtcct  congeniality  of  feeling  between 
the  pair ;  but,  when  they  spoke  to  each  other,  the 
hearer  was  instantly  aware  of  the  affectionate 
communion  tlieir  hearts  enjoyed.  There  was  a 
modulation  in  their  voices  which  love  only  can 
teach  ;  it  was  not  terms  of  endearment, — such  are 
easily  said ;  it  was  the  manner,  the  tone,  the  soft, 
low-brcathcd,  and,  as  it  were,  watchful  sympathy 
of  tone,  always  chiming  in  harmony,  and  making, 
to  the  soul  of  cither,  that  pleasant  music,  which 
no  skill  in  art,  no  sound  in  nature,  can  equal. 

But  the  Cliristian  can  never  live  for  himself. 
Mr.  Johnson,  blessed  as  his  lot  was,  could  not  feel 
happy  while  those  pious  men,  whose  tenets  he 
respected,  were  suffering  persecution.  It  is  true, 
he  sometimes  regretted  tliat  they  should  adhere, 
with  such  unbending  pertinacity,  to  those  points 
of  their  faith  which  only  regarded  ceremonials  in 
religion ;  but  their  firmness,  under  every  trial 
which  their  vindictive  enemies  could  inflict,  gave 


318  YOUNG    lady's 

a  sacredncss  lo  the  sufFering-  cause,  which  enlisted 
all  his  benevolent  feelings  in  their  behalf. 

He  had  a  large  estate  unincumbered.  He  had 
been  married  to  the  Lady  Arabella  ten  years,  but 
they  had  no  children ;  and  it  often  occurred  to  him, 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  employ  his  wealth  in  sue- 
couring  the  oppressed  Puritans.  His  own  mildness 
and  moderation,  and  the  powerful  family  with 
which  he  was  connected,  had  effectually  screened 
him  from  the  persecutions  which  had  followed  the 
obnoxious  party  he  favoured.  His  moderation  did 
not  proceed  from  timidity,  or  love  of  worldly  ease, 
or  indifference  to  the  cause  he  had  espoused; — it 
was  the  character  of  the  man.  He  was  con- 
siderate. 

Such  people  make  less  bustle  in  the  world,  and, 
consequently,  draw  less  notice  than  the  ardent  and 
enthusiastic ;  but  they  are,  notwithstanding,  the 
stamina  of  every  successful  adventure.  Such  a 
one  will  hold  on  his  way  when  a  more  fiery  spirit 
is  broken  or  subdued ;  and  the  impetus  given  to  a 
particular  train  of  events  by  the  latter,  would  soon 
cease,  were  not  the  motion  continued  by  the  cool 
perseverance  of  the  former. 

The  project  of  the  Puritans,  to  transport  them- 
selves, their  wives  and  cliildren,  to  the  new  world, 
and  tlicre  to  remain  and  found  a  nation,  considered 
only  by  tlie  light  of  sober  reason,  was  as  romantic 
an  undertaking  as  ever  sane  men  adopted  Some 
were  too  old  to  provide  for  themselves — some  were 
too  young  to  render  assistance — and  many  were 
too  poor  to  procure  necessaries,  even  for  the  voyage. 
But  all  these  must  go.  No  one  of  the  brethren,  who 
wished  to  join  the  expedition,  must  be  rejected  be- 
cause he  was  old  or  poor.  And  their  little  ones, 
— could  they  leave  them  behind  ? 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  S19 

Mr.  Jolinson's  eyes  overflowed  with  tears,  and 
his  lieart  throbbed  with  thick  hearings,  while  he 
read  a  letter  from  one  of  his  friends,  describing-  the 
difficulties  they  were  encountering,  to  prepare  for 
the  emigration  of  the  colony.  "  Oh,"  thought  he, 
"  why  do  I  sit  here  ?  Why,  when  God  has  placed 
the  means  in  my  hands,  do  I  not.  arise,  and  offer 
of  my  substance  to  assist  his  servants  ?  And  why 
do  I  not  go  with  tlicm  ?" 

He  paused,  for  the  thought  of  his  wife  came 
over  his  mind.  Could  she  endure  the  change  ? 
Ought  lie  to  expect  it,  to  wish  it  ?  Should  her  love 
to  him  be  tlie  means  of  exposing  her  delicate  form 
to  the  dangers  of  the  sea — the  perils  of  a  howling 
wilderness  ?  Just  as  he  had  concluded,  that  even 
to  think  of  her  making  such  a  sacrifice,  was  a 
breach  of  the  protection  he  liad  vowed  to  her  at 
the  altar,  she  entered  the  library  where  he  was 
sitting.  "  In  tears,  my  beloved  ?"  said  Arabella, 
advancing,  and  laying  her  white  hand  softly  on 
her  husband's  shoulder,  while  the  smile  that  could 
usually  chase  away  all  his  cares  played  on  her  lips. 
But,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  hers,  their  deep  sorrow 
awed  her,  and  she  felt  it  wf^s  no  earthly  grief  that 
oppressed  liim.  Slie  drew  closer  to  him,  sat  down 
by  his  side,  took  one  of  his  hands  between  hers, 
and  for  some  minutes  kept  that  silence  which  is 
tlie  surest  sign  of  deep  sympathy. 

But  when  he  had  told  her  the  cause  why  he 
wept,  and  read  to  her  the  letter,  it  was  wonderful  to 
see  how  the  spirit  of  that  angelic  woman  awoke  to 
the  perception  of  all  that  was  in  his  heart.  He 
had  spoken  nothing  of  his  own  thoughts,  or  wishes, 
or  struggles.  But  she  comprehended  them  in  a 
moment;  and  she  felt,  at  the  same  time,  happy 
that  she  had  at  last  penetrated  the  cause  why  his 


230  YOUNG    lady's 

countenance  had,  for  many  weeks,  worn  more  than 
its  usual  pensivencss,  and  that  it  was  in  lier  power 
to  comfort  him — to  reconcile  him  to  himself — to 
aid  him  in  the  performance  of  his  duty. 

Every  thing  was  soon  arranged,  and  Mr.  Jolm- 
son  and  the  Lady  Arabella  joined  their  names  to 
the  list  of  the  emigrants.  "  It  is  no  cross  to  me  to 
forsake  the  world,  if  I  may  only  keep  by  your 
side,"  whispered  Arabella  to  her  husband,  while  a 
fashionable  friend  was  expatiating  on  tlie  terrible 
dangers  to  be  encountered  in  a  pilgrimage  to 
America.  And  all  her  conduct  was  framed  to 
lessen  his  uneasiness  for  her ;  to  take  from  him 
every  fear  that  her  compliance  with  his  wishes 
was  a  sacrifice  of  her  inclination ;  indeed,  she 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  thought  of  assisting  him  to  do 
tlie  good  he  meditated,  as  a  privilege. 

Mr.  Jolmson  disposed  of  the  bulk  of  his  property 
in  England,  that  he  might  have  the  power  of  aid- 
ing those  poor  pious  persons,  who  had  hearts,  but 
not  means,  to  join  the  expedition.  He  provided 
comforts  for  many  who  had  none  to  help  them ; 
and  it  was  chiefly  owing  to  the  judicious  plans  he 
proposed,  and  the  efficient  pecuniary  aid  he  was 
ever  ready  to  furnish,"  that  the  embarkation  of  so 
large  a  company  was  effected. 

In  all  this  he  was  cheered  by  the  approving 
smiles  of  her  whom  he  loved  more  than  all  the 
world ;  and  the  more  than  heroic,  the  Christian 
fortitude  and  cheerfulness  with  which  his  wife 
resigned  all  the  luxuries  and  blandishments  of  her 
high  station,  and  bent  her  whole  heart  to  aid  him 
in  performing  what  he  felt  to  be  his  duty,  infused 
into  his  soul  a  strength,  an  ardour,  a  joy,  that  made 
every  labour  and  sacrifice  seem  a  triumph.  At 
length,   they   embarked;    and,    during   the   long^ 


DOOK    OF    PROSE.  221 

passage,  the  Lady  Arabella  displayed  the  same 
unshaken  eonfidcnce  in  the  success  of  their  ex- 
pedition. 

The  vivacity  of  her  spirits  had,  it  is  true,  some- 
what  abated  ;  but  it  was  only  the  chastened  effect 
which  the  deep  responsibility  of  a  design  so  im- 
portant  as  that  in  which  she  had  voluntarily  en- 
gaged, would  have  on  a  mind  so  pure  and  devoted 
as  hers.  Yet  there  was  nothing  in  her  air  like 
the  prim  gravity  with  which  our  imagination  is 
accustomed  to  invest  the  Puritans,  especially  the 
men.  She  was  habitually  cheerful.  But  the  most 
rigid  among  that  company  would  unliesitatingly 
have  pointed  her  out  as  their  example  in  Christian 
patience  and  charity.  She  was  the  sunbeam  on 
their  dark  path ;  and  not  only  her  husband,  but  all 
to  whom  she  was  known,  regarded  her  as  almost, 
if  not  altogether,  an  angel. 

They  landed  at  Salem,  June  12tii,  1630.  The 
condition  in  which  they  found  the  colony  at  that 
place,  was  most  distressing.  They  had  looked  on 
death,  and  wept  over  the  graves  of  their  friends, 
till  the  fountain  of  their  tears  seemed  dried  up ; 
and  they  had  felt,  in  their  despair,  that  it  was 
better  for  them  to  die  than  to  live.  They  needed 
sympathy,  aid,  comforters.  And  in  those  who 
landed  they  found  all  these.  The  Lady  Arabella, 
especially,  exerted  herself  to  soothe  the  mourners, 
and  presented,  with  her  own  hands,  many  of  those 
delicacies,  which  her  husband  had  carefully  pro- 
vided for  her,  to  the  sick  and  debilitated  among 
the  settlers.  And  many  a  blessing  was  invoked 
on  her  head,  and  many  a  prayer  was  breathed  for 
her  preservation. 

But  her  work  was  soon  done.  She  was  attacked 
with  severe  pain  in  her  limbs,  the  consequence  of 


222  YOUNG  lady's 

a  cold,  accompanied  by  a  slow  fever ;  yet  she  still 
maintained  her  cheerfulness,  and  even  exhibited 
increasing  interest  in  the  plans  then  agitating 
among  the  company,  respecting  the  place  where 
they  should  make  tlicir  permanent  settlement. 

Her  mind,  during  her  sickness,  wliich  lasted  ten 
days,  appeared  wholly  intent  on  promoting  the  in- 
terests of  pure  religion ;  and,  as  connected  with 
tliat  end,  she,  like  all  the  colonists,  thought  the 
settlement  of  New-England  essentially  necessary. 
Much  of  her  time  was  passed  in  conversing  with 
her  husband  and  those  about  her,  on  the  future 
prospects  of  the  colony.  And  it  afterwards  mighti- 
ly encouraged  the  hearts  of  those  self-exiled  people, 
that  the  Lady  Arabella  had  always,  even  in  the 
midst  of  her  suffering,  rejoiced  that  she  had  shared 
in  the  expedition,  and  declared  her  conviction,  that 
God  would  prosper  them  even  beyond  their  hopes. 

The  night  before  she  died,  she  endured  much, 
and  her  husband  watched  beside  her  ;  but  towards 
morning,  she  insisted  he  should  retire,  and  try  to 
sleep.  To  gratify  her,  he  lay  down ;  and,  contrary 
to  his  expectations, — for  his  mind  was  tortured 
with  anxiety  and  pity  for  his  wife,  though  he  still 
clung  to  the  hope  that  she  would  ultimately  re- 
cover,— he  fell  asleep.  He  was  aroused  from  a 
dream,  in  which  he  had  beheld  his  Arabella  cloth- 
ed in  her  bridal  array,  and  resplendent  in  beauty, 
just  as  she  looked  wlien  he  led  her  to  the  altar — 
he  was  roused,  and  told  that  she  was  dying.  He 
started  from  the  bed,  and,  trembling  in  every  joint, 
he  hurried  to  the  small,  though  not  uncomfortable 
apartment,  which  had  been  provided  for  her. 

The  sun  was  just  rising,  and  the  cool  air  of  the 
morning  came  fresh  from  the  waters  ;  but  it  could 
not  revive  her.  The  "  mortal  paleness"  was  on  her 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  223 

cheek, — and  her  husband  saw  it;  and,  for  a  few 
moments,  he  was  too  much  overcome  to  hstcn  to 
the  sweet,  comforting^  words  that  broke  from  her 
lips,  as  if  she  would  impart  to  his  mind  a  portion 
of  the  peace  that  pervaded  hers. 

"  My  beloved,"  said  she  softly,  a  faint  smile 
hovering  on  her  white  lips — and  she  extended  her 
cold  hand  to  clasp  the  one  he  offered.  'J'he  touch 
seemed  to  chill  his  soul — it  was  death.  His  limbs 
became  powerless  ;  and,  sinking  into  a  chair,  he 
covered  his  face,  and  groaned  aloud.  She  raised 
her  head  from  the  pillow,  and  gazed  on  him  with 
eyes  in  which  tenderness  and  pity  seemed  strug- 
gling through  the  cloud  that  was  slowly,  but  sure- 
ly, separating  the  world  for  ever  from  her  view. 
With  a  strong  effort,  stic  shook  off,  for  a  few  min- 
utes, the  torpor  that  was,  wlien  he  entered,  steal- 
ing over  her.  She  strove,  by  soothing  assurance, 
to  calm  his  grief. 

Fearing  he  might  regret  he  had  allowed  her  to 
accompany  him  in  such  a  perilous  undertaking, 
she  assured  him,  again  and  again,  how  blessed  a 
privilege  she  considered  it  to  be,  that  she  should 
die  and  be  buried  in  a  land  where  God  might  be 
worshipped  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  "  Do  not,  my 
husband,"  said  she,  "  suffer  my  death  to  occupy 
your  mind.  We  shall  meet  in  heaven.  But  there 
is  a  work  here  for  you  to  do ;  and  I  feel  as  if  it 
were  a  mercy  that  I  should  be  taken,  so  that  your 
usefulness  may  no  longer  be  clogged  by  your  cares 
for  me,  I  die  so  happy  ! — happy  in  every  thing, 
but  that  you  will  grieve  for  me.  There  is  no  pang 
in  death  but  leaving  you." 

And  then  she  blessed  him  for  all  his  kindness 
to  her,  and  besought  him  to  take  courage  and  per 
severe  in  the  course  he  had  begun,  and  assured 


224  YOUNG  lady's 

him  tliat  she  felt  a  confidence  in  the  Lord,  even  a 
strong  faith  shedding  light  on  the  dark  path  she 
was  treading,  that  the  work  would  prosper,  and 
that  a  mighty  nation  would  arise  from  their  feeble 
beginnings,  who  would  be  worshippers  of  the  true 
God 

Ladies'  Magazine. 


ON  HUMAN  GRANDEUR. 

An  alehouse-keeper  near  Islington,  who  had 
long  lived  at  the  sign  of  the  French  King,  upon 
the  commencement  of  the  last  war  pulled  down  his 
old  sign,  and  put  up  that  of  the  Queen  of  Hungary. 
Under  the  influence  of  her  red  face  and  golden 
sceptre,  he  continued  to  sell  ale,  till  she  was  no 
longer  the  favourite  of  his  customers  ;  he  changed 
her  therefore,  some  time  ago,  for  the  King  of 
Prussia,  who  may  probably  be  changed,  in  turn, 
for  the  next  great  man  that  shall  be  set  up  for 
vulgar  admiration. 

In  this  manner  the  great  are  dealt  out,  one  after 
the  other,  to  the  gazing  crowd.  When  we  have 
sufTiciently  wondered  at  one  of  them,  he  is  taken 
in,  and  another  exhibited  in  his  room,  who  seldom 
holds  his  station  long :  for  the  mob  are  ever  pleas- 
ed with  variety. 

I  must  own  I  have  such  an  indifferent  opinion 
of  the  vul;^ar,  that  I  am  ever  led  to  suspect  that 
merit  wliich  raises  their  shout:  at  least  I  am 
certain  to  find  those  great,  and  sometimes  good 
men,  who  find  satisfaction  in  such  acclamations, 
made  worse  by  it ;  and  history  has  too  frequently 
taught  me,  that  the  head  which  has  grown  thi^ 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  225 

day  giddy  with  the  roar  of  the  million,  has  the 
very  next  been  fixed  upon  a  pole. 

As  Alexander  VI.  was  entering  a  little  town  in 
tlie  neighbourhood  of  Rome,  which  had  been  just 
evacuated  by  the  enemy,  he  perceived  the  towns- 
men busy  in  the  market-place  in  pulling  down 
from  a  gibbet  a  figure  which  had  been  designed  to 
represent  himself.  There  were  some  also  knock- 
ing  down  a  neighbouring  statue  of  one  of  the  Or- 
sini  family,  with  whom  he  was  at  war,  in  order  to 
put  Alexander's  effigy  in  its  place.  It  is  possible 
a  man  who  knew  less  of  the  world  would  have 
condemned  the  adulation  of  those  bare-faced  flat- 
terers ;  but  Alexander  seemed  pleased  at  their 
zeal ;  and  turning  to  Borgia,  his  son,  said  wuth  a 
smile,  "  Vidcs,  mi  fili,  quam  leve  discrimen,  pati- 
bulum  inter  et  statuam."  "  You  see,  my  son  the 
Bmall  difference  between  a  gibbet  and  a  statue." 
If  the  great  could  be  taught  any  lesson,  this  might 
serve  to  teach  them  upon  how  weak  a  foundation 
their  glory  stands :  for  as  popular  applause  is  ex- 
cited by  what  seems  like  merit,  it  as  quickly  con- 
demns what  has  only  the  appearance  of  guilt. 

Popular  glory  is  a  perfect  coquette  :  her  lovers 
must  toil,  feel  every  inquietude,  indulge  every 
caprice ;  and,  perhaps,  at  last,  be  jilted  for  their 
pains.  True  glory,  on  the  other  hand,  resembles 
a  woman  of  sense ;  her  admirers  must  play  no 
tricks ;  they  feel  no  great  anxiety,  for  they  are 
sure,  in  tlie  end,  of  being  rewarded  in  proportion 
to  their  merit.  When  Swifl  used  to  appear  in 
public,  he  generally  had  the  mob  shouting  at  his 
train.  "Pox  take  these  fools,"  he  would  say,  "how 
much  joy  might  all  this  bawling  give  my  lord- 
mayor  !" 

We  have  Bcen  those  virtues  which  have,  while 
15 


1226  YOUNG  lady's 

living',  retired  from  llic  public  eye,  g'cncrally  trans- 
rniltcd  to  posterity,  as  the  truest  objects  ofadmira- 
tion  and  praise.  Perliaps  the  character  of  the  late 
duke  of  Marlborough  may  one  day  be  set  up,  even 
above  that  of  his  more  talked-of  predecessor  ;  since 
an  assemblage  of  all  the  mild  and  amiable  virtues 
are  far  superior  to  those  vulgarly  called  the  great 
ones.  I  must  be  pardoned  for  this  short  tribute  to 
the  memory  of  a  man  who,  while  living,  would  as 
much  detest  to  receive  any  thing  that  wore  the  ap- 
pearance of  flattery,  as  I  should  to  offer  it. 

I  know  not  how  to  turn  so  trite  a  subject  out  of 
the  beaten  road  of  common-place,  except  by  illus- 
trating^  it,  rather  by  the  assistance  of  my  memory 
than  judgment ;  and,  instead  of  making  reflections, 
by  telling  a  story. 

A  Chinese,  who  had  long  studied  the  works  of 
Confucius,  who  knew  the  characters  of  fourteen 
thousand  words,  and  could  read  a  great  part  of 
every  book  that  came  into  his  way,  once  took  it 
into  his  head  to  travel  into  Europe,  and  observe 
the  customs  of  a  people  which  he  thought  not 
very  much  inferior  even  to  his  own  countrymen. 
Upon  his  arrival  at  Amsterdam,  his  passion  for 
letters  naturally  led  him  to  a  bookseller's  shop ; 
and,  as  he  could  speak  a  little  Dutch,  he  civilly 
asked  the  bookseller  for  the  works  of  the  immortal 
Xixofou.  The  bookseller  assured  him  he  had  never 
heard  the  book  mentioned  before.  "  Alas  I"  cries 
our  traveller,  "  to  what  purpose,  then,  has  he  fasted 
to  death,  to  gain  a  renown  which  has  never  tra- 
velled beyond  the  precincts  of  China  !" 

There  is  scarce  a  village  in  Europe,  and  not  one 
imiversity,  that  is  not  thus  furnished  with  its  little 
great  men.  The  head  of  a  petty  corporation,  who 
opposes  the  designs  of  a  prince,  who  would  tyran- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  227 

nically  force  his  subjects  to  save  tlicir  best  clothes 
for  Sundays;  the  puny  pedant,  who  finds  one  un- 
discovered quaUty  in  the  polype,  or  describes  an 
unheeded  process  in  the  skeleton  of  a  mole ;  and 
whose  mind,  like  his  microsco})e,  perceives  nature 
only  in  detail ;  the  rhymer,  wlio  makes  smooth 
verses,  and  paints  to  our  imagination,  when  he 
should  only  speak  to  our  hearts  ;  all  equally  fancy 
themselves  walking  forward  to  immortality,  and 
desire  the  crowd  behind  them  to  look  on.  The 
crowd  takes  them  at  their  word.  Patriot,  phi- 
losopher, and  poet,  arc  sliouted  in  their  train. 
"  Where  was  there  ever  so  much  merit  seen !  no 
time  so  important  as  our  own  !  ages,  yet  unborn, 
shall  gaze  with  wonder  and  applause  I"  To  such 
music  the  important  pigmy  moves  forward,  bust- 
ling and  swelling,  and  aptly  compared  to  a  puddle 
in  a  storm. 

I  have  lived  to  see  generals  who  once  had 
crowds  hallooing  after  them  wherever  they  went, 
who  were  bepraised  by  news-papers  and  maga- 
zines, those  echoes  of  tlie  voice  of  the  vulgar,  and 
yet  they  have  long  sunk  into  merited  obscurity, 
with  scarce  even  an  epitaph  left  to  flatter.  A  few 
years  ago  the  herring-fishery  employed  all  Grub- 
street  ;  it  was  the  topic  in  every  coffee-house,  and 
the  burden  of  every  ballad.  We  were  to  drag  up 
oceans  of  gold  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  we  were 
to  supply  all  Europe  with  herrings  upon  our  own 
terms.  At  present^  we  hear  no  more  of  all  this. 
We  have  fished  up  very  little  gold  that  I  can  learn; 
nor  do  we  furnish  the  world  with  herrings,  as  was 
expected.  Let  us  wait  but  a  few  years  longer, 
and  we  shall  find  all  our  expectations  a  herring- 
fishery. 

Goldsmith. 


228  YOUNG  lady's 

THE  HILL  OF  SCIENCE. 


In  that  season  of  the  year  when  the  serenity  of 
the  sky,  the  various  fruits  which  cover  the  ground, 
tlie  discoloured  foUage  of  the  trees,  and  all  the 
sweet,  but  fading  graces  of  inspiring  autumn,  open 
the  mind  to  benevolence,  and  dispose  it  for  con- 
templation, I  was  wandering  in  a  beautiful  and 
romantic  country,  till  curiosity  began  to  give  way 
to  weariness ;  and  I  sat  me  down  on  the  fragment 
of  a  rock  overgrown  with  moss,  where  the  rust- 
ling of  the  falling  leaves,  the  dashing  of  waters, 
and  the  hum  of  the  distant  city,  soothed  my  mind 
into  the  most  perfect  tranquillity,  and  sleep  insensi- 
i/Iy  stole  upon  me,  as  I  was  indulging  the  agree- 
able  reveries  which  the  objects  around  me  natural- 
ly inspired. 

I  immediately  found  myself  in  a  vast  extended 
plain,  in  the  middle  of  which  arose  a  mountain 
higher  than  I  had  before  any  conception  of.  It 
v/as  covered  with  a  multitude  of  people,  chiefly 
youth ;  many  of  whom  pressed  forwards  with  the 
liveliest  expression  of  ardour  in  their  countenance, 
though  the  way  was  in  many  places  steep  and 
difficult.  I  observed,  that  those,  who  had  but  just 
begun  to  climb  the  hill  thought  themselves  not  far 
from  the  top ;  but  as  they  proceeded,  new  hills 
were  continually  rising  to  their  view,  and  the 
summit  of  the  highest  they  Could  before  discern 
seemed  but  the  foot  of  another,  till  the  mountain 
at  length  appeared  to  lose  itself  in  the  clouds.  As 
I  was  gazing  on  these  things  with  astonishment, 
my  good  genius  suddenly  appeared  :  The  mountain 
before  thee,  said  he,  is  the  Hill  of  Science.  On  the 


BOOK   OF    PROSE.  229 

top  is  the  temple  of  Truth,  whose  head  is  above 
the  clouds,  and  a  veil  of  pure  light  covers  her  face. 
Observe  the  progress  of  lier  votaries ;  bo  silent  and 
attentive. 

I  saw  that  tlie  only  regular  approach  to  the 
mountain  was  by  a  gate,  called  the  gate  of  Lan- 
guages. It  was  kept  by  a  woman  of  a  pensive 
and  thoughtful  apjx^arance,  whose  lips  were  con- 
tinually moving,  as  though  she  repeated  something 
to  herself.  Her  name  was  Memory.  On  entering 
this  first  enclosure,  1  was  stunned  with  a  confused 
murmur  of  jarring  voices,  and  dissonant  sounds; 
which  increased  upon  me  to  such  a  degree,  that  I 
was  utterly  confounded,  and  could  compare  the 
noise  to  notliing  but  the  confusion  of  tongues  at 
Babel.  The  road  was  also  rough  and  stony ;  and 
rendered  more  difficult  by  heaps  of  rubbish  con- 
tinually tumbled  down  from  the  higlicr  parts  of 
the  mountain  ;  and  broken  ruins  of  ancient  build- 
ings,  which  tlie  travellers  were  obliged  to  climb 
over  at  every  step;  iiipomnch  that  many,  disgusted 
with  so  rough  a  beginning,  turned  back,  and  at- 
tempted the  mountain  no  more ;  while  others, 
having  conquered  this  difficulty,  had  no  spirits  to 
ascend  farther,  and  sitting  down  on  some  frag- 
ment of  the  rubbish,  harangued  the  multitude  be- 
low with  the  greatest  jnarks  of  importance  and 
self-complacency. 

About  half-way  up  the  hill,  I  observed  on  each 
side  the  path  a  thick  forest  covered  with  continual 
fogs,  and  cut  out  into  labyrinths,  cross  alleys,  and 
serpentine  walks,  entangled  with  thorns  and  briars. 
This  was  called  the  wood  of  Error :  and  I  heard 
the  voices  of  many  who  were  tost  up  and  down  in 
it,  calling  to  one  another,  and  endeavouring  in 
vaiji  to  extricate  themselves.     The  trees  in  many 


230  YOUNG  lady's 

places  shot  their  bouglis  over  the  path,  and  a  thick 
mist  often  rested  on  it ;  yet  never  so  much  but 
that  it  was  discernible  by  the  light  which  beamed 
from  the  countenance  of  Truth. 

In  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  mountain  were 
placed  the  bowers  of  the  Muses,  whose  office  it 
was  to  cheer  the  spirits  of  the  travellers,  and  en- 
courage their  fainting  steps  with  songs  from  their 
divine  harps.  Not  far  from  hence  were  the  fields 
of  Fiction,  filled  with  a  variety  of  wild  flowers 
springing  up  in  the  greatest  luxuriance,  of  richer 
scents  and  brighter  colours  than  I  had  observed  in 
any  other  climate.  And  near  them  was  the  dark 
walk  of  Allegory,  so  artifically  shaded,  that  the 
light  at  noon-day  was  never  stronger  than  that  of 
a  bright  moon-shine.  This  gave  it  a  pleasingly 
romantic  air  for  those  who  delighted  in  contempla- 
tion. The  paths  and  alleys  were  perplexed  with 
intricate  windings,  and  were  all  terminated  with 
the  statue  of  a  Grace,  a  Virtue,  or  a  Muse. 

After  I  had  observed  these  things,  I  turned  my 
eye  towards  the  multitudes  who  were  climbing  the 
steep  ascent,  and  observed  amongst  them  a  youtli 
of  a  lively  look,  a  piercing  eye,  and  something 
fiery  and  irregular  in  all  his  motions.  His  name 
was  Genius.  He  darted  like  an  eagle  up  the 
mountain,  and  left  his  companions  gazing  after 
him  with  envy  and  admiration  :  but  his  progress 
was  unequal,  and  interrupted  by  a  thousand  ca- 
prices. When  Pleasure  warbled  in  the  valley,  he 
mingled  in  her  train.  When  Pride  beckoned  to- 
wards the  precipice,  he  ventured  to  the  tottering 
edge.  He  delighted  in  devious  and  untried  paths ; 
and  made  so  many  excursions  from  the  road,  that 
his  feebler  companions  often  out-stripped  him.  I 
observed  that  the  Muses  beheld  him  with  partiali- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  231 

ty  ;  but  Truth  often  frowned,  and  turned  aside  her 
face.  While  Genius  was  tlius  wasting  his  strength 
in  eccentric  flights,  I  saw  a  person  of  a  very  dill 
ferent  appearance,  named  Application.  lie  crept 
along  with  a  slow  and  unremitting  i)ace,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  top  of  the  mountain,  patiently  remov- 
ing every  stone  that  obstructed  his  way,  till  he 
saw  most  of  those  below  him  who  had  at  first 
derided  his  slow  and  toilsome  progress.  Indeed 
there  were  few  who  ascended  the  hill  with  equal 
and  uninterrupted  steadiness ;  for,  beside  the  difii- 
culties  of  the  way,  they  were  continually  solicited 
to  turn  aside  by  a  numerous  crowd  of  Appetites, 
Passions,  and  Pleasures,  whose  importunity,  when 
they  had  once  complied  with,  they  became  less 
and  less  able  to  resist ;  and  thougli  they  often  re- 
turned to  the  pati),  the  asperities  of  the  road  were 
more  severely  felt,  the  hill  appeared  more  steep 
and  rugged,  the  fruits  which  were  wholesome  and 
refreshing  seemed  harsh  and  ill-tasted,  their  sight 
grew  dim,  and  their  feet  tripped  at  every  little  ob- 
struction. 

I  saw,  with  some  surprise,  that  the  Muses,  whose 
business  was  to  cheer  and  encourage  those  who 
were  toiling  up  tlie  ascent,  would  often  sing  in  the 
bowers  of  Pleasure,  and  accompany  those  who  were 
enticed  away  at  the  call  of  the  Passions ;  they  ac- 
companied them,  however,  but  a  little  way,  and 
always  forsook  them  when  they  lost  sight  of  the 
hill.  The  tyrants  then  doubled  tlu?ir  chains  upon 
the  unhappy  captives,  and  led  them  awa}',  without 
resistance,  to  the  cells  of  Ignorance,  or  the  man- 
sions of  Misery.  Amongst  the  innumerable  se- 
ducers, who  were  endeavouring  to  draw  away  the 
votaries  of  Truth  from  the  path  of  Science,  there 
was  one,  so  little  formidable  in  her  appearance, 


-232  YOUNG  lady's 

and  so  gentle  and  languid  in  her  attempts,  that  I 
Kliould  scarcely  have  taken  notice  of  her,  but  for 
the  numbers  she  had  imperceptibly  loaded  with 
iier  chains.  Indolence  (for  so  she  was  called)  far 
from  proceeding  to  open  hostilities,  did  not  attempt 
to  turn  their  teet  out  of  the  path,  but  contented 
herself  with  retarding  their  progress;  and  the  pur- 
pose she  could  not  force  them  to  abandon,  she  per. 
suadcd  th'Sm  to  delay.  Her  touch  had  a  power 
like  that  of  the  torpedo,  which  withered  the  strength 
of  those  who  came  within  its  influence.  Her  un- 
happy captives  still  turned  their  faces  towards  the 
temple,  and  always  hoped  to  arrive  there ;  but  the 
ground  seemed  to  slide  from  beneath  tlieir  feet, 
and  they  found  themselves  at  the  bottom,  before 
they  suspected  they  had  changed  their  place.  The 
placid  serenity  which  at  first  appeared  in  their  coun- 
tenance, changed  by  degrees  into  a  melancholy  lan- 
guor, which  was  tinged  with  deeper  and  deeper 
gloom,  as  they  glided  down  the  stream  of  Insignifi- 
cance; a  dark  and  sluggish  water,  which  is  curled 
by  no  breeze,  and  enlivened  by  no  murmur,  till  it 
falls  ijito  a  dead  sea,  where  startled  passengers  are 
awakened  by  the  shock,  and  the  next  moment  bu- 
ried in  the  gulf  of  Oblivion. 

Of  all  the  unhai)py  deserters  from  the  path  of 
Science,  none  seemed  less  able  to  return  than  the 
followers  of  Indolence.  The  captives  of  Appetite 
and  Passion  could  often  seize  the  moment  when 
their  tyrants  were  languid  or  asleep,  to  escape 
ii"om  their  enchantment ;  but  the  dominion  of  In- 
dolence was  constant  and  unremitted,  and  seldom 
resisted,  till  resistance  was  in  vain. 

After  contemplating  these  things,  I  turned  my 
eyes  towards  the  top  of  the  mountain,  where  the 
air   was  always  pure  and  exhilarating,  the  path 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  233 

shaded  with  laurels  and  other  cvcrprccns,  and  the 
effulgence  which  beamed  from  the  face  of  tlie  god- 
dess seemed  to  shed  a  glory  round  her  votaries. 
Happy,  said  I,  are  they  who  are  permitted  to  as 
eend  the  mountain! — but  while  I  was  pronouncing 
this  exclamation  with  uncommon  ardour,  I  saw- 
standing  beside  me  a  form  of  diviner  features  and 
a  more  benign  radiance.  Happier,  said  she,  are 
those  whoni  Virtue  conducts  to  tlie  mansions  of 
Content !  What,  said  I,  docs  Virtue  then  reside 
in  the  vale  ?  I  am  found,  said  she,  in  the  vale,  and 
1  illuminate  the  mountain :  I  cheer  the  cottager  at 
his  toil,  and  inspire  the  sage  at  his  meditation.  I 
mingle  in  the  crowd  of  cities,  and  bless  the  hermit 
in  his  cell.  I  have  a  temple  in  every  heart  that 
owns  my  induence;  and  to  him  that  wishes  for  mo 
I  am  already  present.  Science  may  raise  you  to 
eminence,  but  I  idone  can  guide  you  to  felicity ! — 
While  the  goddess  was  thus  speaking,  I  stretched 
out  my  arms  towards  her  with  a  vehemence  which 
broke  my  slumbers.  The  chill  dews  were  falling 
around  me,  and  the  shades  of  evening  stretched 
over  the  landscape.  I  hastened  homeward,  and 
resigned  the  night  to  silence  and  meditation. 

Aikin's  Miscel. 


FASHION. 

A  VISION. 


Young  as  you  are,  my  dear  Flora,  you  cannot 
but  have  noticed  the  eagerness  with  which  ques. 
tions,  relative  to  civil  liberty,  have  been  discussed 
in  every  society.  To  break  the  shackles  of  oppres. 
sion,  and  assert  tlie  native  rights  of  man,  is  esteemed 


234  YOUNG  lady's 

by  many  among-  the  noblest  efforts  of  heroic  vir 
tue ;  but  vain  is  the  possession  of  political  liberty, 
if  there  exists  a  tyrant  of  our  own  creation,  who, 
without  law  or  reason,  or  even  external  force,  exer- 
cises over  us  the  most  despotic  authority ;  whose 
jurisdiction  is  extended  over  every  part  of  private 
and  domestic  life ;  controls  our  pleasures,  fashions 
our  garb,  cramps  our  motions,  fills  our  lives  with 
vain  cares  and  restless  anxiety.  The  worst  slavery 
is  that  which  we  voluntarily  impose  upon  our- 
selves ;  and  no  chains  are  so  cumbrous  and  gall- 
ing- as  those  which  we  are  pleased  to  wear  by  way 
of  g-race  and  ornament.  Musing-  upon  this  idea, 
gave  rise  to  the  following  dream  or  vision : 

Methought  I  was  in  a  country  of  the  strangest 
and  most  singular  appearance  I  had  ever  beheld  : 
the  rivers  were  forced  into  jet-d'eaus,  and  wasted 
in  artificial  water-works ;  the  lakes  were  fash- 
ioned by  the  hand  of  art;  the  roads  were  sand- 
ed with  spar  and  gold-dust;  the  trees  all  bore 'the 
marks  of  the  shears,  they  were  bent  and  twisted 
into  the  most  whimsical  forms,  and  connected  to- 
gether by  festoons  of  ribbon  and  silk  fringe :  the 
wild  flowers  were  transplanted  into  vases  of  fine 
china,  and  painted  with  artificial  white  and  red. 

The  disposition  of  the  ground  was  full  of  fancy, 
but  grotesque  and  unnatural  in  the  highest  de- 
gree ;  it  was  all  highly  cultivated,  and  bore  the 
marks  of  wonderful  industry ;  but  among  its  va- 
rious productions  I  could  hardly  discern  one  that 
was  of  any  use. 

My  attention,  however,  wa§  soon  called  off  from 
the  scenes  of  inanimate  life,  by  the  view  of  the 
inhabitants,  whose  form  and  appearance  were  so 
very  preposterous,  and,  indeed,  so  unlike  any  thing 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  235 

human,  that  I  fancied  myself  transported  to  the 
country  of 

"The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heada 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders:" 

for  the  lieads  of  many  of  these  people  were  swelled 
to  an  astonislung  size,  and  seemed  to  be  placed  in 
tlie  middle  of  tlieir  bodies.  Of  some,  the  ears  were 
distended  till  tliey  hung  upon  tlie  shoulders ;  and 
of  others,  the  shoulders  were  raised  till  they  met 
the  ears:  there  was  not  one  free  from  some  deform- 
ity, or  monstrous  swelling-,  in  one  part  cr  other ; 
either  it  was  before,  or  behind,  or  about  the  hips, 
or  the  arms  were  puifed  up  to  an  unusual  thick- 
ness,  or  the  throat  was  increased  to  the  same  size 
with  the  poor  objects  once  exhibited  under  the 
name  of  the  monstrous  Craws:  some  had  no  necks  ; 
others  had  necks  that  reached  almost  to  their 
waists  ;  the  bodies  of  some  were  bloated  up  to  sucli 
a  size,  that  they  could  scarcely  enter  a  pair  of  fold- 
ing doors ;  and  others  had  suddeidy  sprouted  up  to 
such  a  disproportionate  height,  tliat  they  could  not 
sit  upright  in  their  loftiest  carriages. 

Many  shocked  me  with  the  appearance  of  being 
nearly  cut  in  two,  like  a  wasp  ;  and  I  was  alarmed 
at  the  sight  of  a  {c\\\  in  whose  faces,  otherwise 
very  fair  and  healthy,  I  discovered  an  eruption  of 
black  spots,  which  1  feared  was  the  fatal  sign  of 
some  pestilential  disorder. 

The  sight  of  these  various  and  uncouth  deform- 
ities inspired  me  with  much  pity;  which,  however, 
was  soon  changed  into  disgust,  when  I  perceived, 
with  great  surprise'  that  every  one  of  these  unfor- 
tunate men  and  women  was  exceedingly  proud  of 
his  own  peculiar  deformity,  and  endeavoured  to 
attract  my  notice  to  it  as  much  as  possible.     A 


236  YOUNG    lady's 

lady,  in  particular,  who  had  a  swelling"  under  her 
throat,  larger  than  any  goitre  in  the  Valais,  and 
wiiicli,  I  am  sure,  by  its  enormous  projection,  pre- 
vented  her  from  seeing  the  path  she  walked  in, 
brushed  by  me  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  seli' 
complacency,  and  asked  nie  if  she  was  not  a 
charming  creature  ? 

But  by  this  time  I  found  myself  surrounded  by 
an  immense  crowd,  who  were  all  pressing  along  in 
one  direction ;  and  I  perceived  that  I  was  drawji 
along  with  them  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  which 
grew  stronger  every  moment.  I  asked  whither 
we  were  hurrying  with  such  eager  steps  ?  and 
was  told  that  we  were  going  to  the  court  of  Queen 
Fashion,  the  great  Diana  whom  all  the  world  wor- 
shippeth.  I  would  have  retired,  but  felt  myself 
impelled  to  go  on,  though  without  being  sensible 
of  any  outward  force. 

When  I  came  to  tlie  royal  presence,  I  was  as- 
tonished at  the  magnificence  I  saw  around  me. 
The  queen  was  sitting  on  a  throne,  elegantly  fash- 
ioned in  the  form  of  a  shell,  and  inlaid  with  gems 
and  mother-of-pearl.  It  was  supported  by  a  came- 
leon,  formed  of  a  single  emerald.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  light  robe  of  changeable  silk,  which  fluttered 
about  her  in  a  profusion  of  fantastic  folds,  that 
imitated  the  form  of  clouds,  and  like  them  were 
continually  changing  their  appearance.  In  one 
hand  she  held  a  rouge-box,  and  in  the  other  one 
of  those  optical  glasses  which  distort  figures  in 
length  or  in  breadth,  according  to  the  position  in 
which  they  are  held.  At  the^  foot  of  the  throne 
was  displayed  a  profusion  of  the  richest  produc- 
tions of  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  tributes  from 
land  and  sea,  from  every  animal  and  plant;  per- 
fumes, sparkling  stones,  drops  of  pearl,  chains  of 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  237 

gold,  webs  of  the  finest  linen ;  wreaths  of  flowers, 
the  produce  of  art,  which  vied  with  tlio  most  deli- 
cate  productions  of  nature;  forests  of  feathers  wav- 
ing their  brilliant  colours  in  the  air  and  canopying 
the  throne ;  glossy  silks,  network  of  lace,  silvery 
ermine,  soft  folds  of  vegetable  wool,  rustling  paper, 
and  shining  spangles; — the  whole  intermixed  with 
pendants  and  streamers  of  the  gayest  tinctured 
ribbon. 

All  these  together  made  so  brilliant  an  appear- 
ance that  my  eyes  were  at  first  dazzled,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  I  recovered  myself  enough  to 
observe  the  ceremonial  of  tlie  court.  Near  the 
throne,  and  its  chief  supports,  stood  the  queen's 
two  prime  ministers,  Caprice  on  one  side,  and 
Vanity  on  the  other.  Two  otfieers  seemed  cliiefly 
busy  among  the  attendants.  One  of  them  was  a 
man  with  a  pair  of  shears  in  his  hand  and  a  goose 
by  his  side, — a  mysterious  emblem,  of  which  I 
could  not  fathom  the  meaning:  he  sat  cross-legged, 
like  the  great  lama  of  the  Tartars.  He  was  busily 
employed  in  cutting  out  coats  and  garments ;  not, 
however,  like  Dorcas,  for  the  poor — nor,  indeed, 
did  they  seem  intended  for  any  mortal  whatever, 
so  ill  were  they  adapted  to  the  shape  of  the  human 
body.  Some  of  the  garments  were  extravagantly 
large,  others  as  preposterously  small :  of  others,  it 
was  difficult  to  guess  to  what  part  of  the  person 
they  were  meant  to  be  applied.  Here  were  cover- 
ings, which  did  not  cover ;  ornaments,  which  dis- 
figured ;  and  defences  against  the  weather,  more 
slight  and  delicate  than  what  they  were  meant  to 
defend ;  but  all  were  eagerly  caught  up,  without 
distinction,  by  tlie  crowd  of  votaries  who  were 
waiting  to  receive  them. 

The  other  officer  was  dressed  in  a  white  sue- 


238  vouNG  lady's 

cinct  linen  grvrmcnt,  like  a  priest  of  the  lower 
order.  He  moved  in  a  cloud  of  incense  more 
highly  scented  than  the  breezes  of  Arabia;  he  car- 
ricd  a  tull  of  t;;c  whitest  down  of  the  swan  in  one 
hand,  and  in  the  other  a  small  iron  instrument, 
heated  redhot,  which  he  brandished  in  the  air.  It 
was  with  infinite  concern  I  beheld  the  Graces 
bound  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  and  obliged  to  offi- 
ciate, as  handmaids,  under  the  direction  of  tliese 
two  officers. 

I  now  began  to  inquire  by  what  laws  this  queen 
governed  lier  subjects,  but  soon  found  her  admin- 
istration was  that  of  the  most  arbitrary  tyrant  ever 
known.  Her  laws  are  exactly  the  reverse  of  those 
of  the  Medes  and  Persians  ;  for  they  are  changed 
every  day,  and  ever}'^  hour :  and  what  makes  the 
matter  still  more  perplexing,  they  are  in  no  writ- 
ten code,  nor  even  made  public  by  proclamation : 
they  are  only  promulgated  by  whispers,  an  obscure 
sign,  or  turn  of  the  eye,  which  those  only  who 
have  the  happiness  to  stand  near  the  queen  can 
catch  with  any  degree  of  precision :  yet  the  small- 
est transgression  of  the  laws  is  severely  punished ; 
not  indeed  by  fines  or  imprisonment,  but  by  a  sort 
of  interdict  similar  to  that  which  in  superstitious 
times  was  laid  by  the  Pope  on  disobedient  princes, 
and  which  operated  in  such  a  manner  that  no  one 
would  eat,  drink,  or  associate  with  the  forlorn  cul- 
prit, and  he  was  almost  deprived  of  the  use  of  fire 
and  water. 

This  difficulty  of  discovering  the  will  of  the  god- 
dess occasioned  so  much  crowding  to  be  near  the 
throne,  such  jostling  and  elbowing  of  one  another, 
that  I  was  glad  to  retire  and  observe  what  I  could 
among  the  scattered  crowd :  and  the  first  thing  I 
took  notice  of  was  various  instruments  of  tortvu^ 


BOOK   OF    PRUSE.  239 

which  everywhere  met  my  eyes.  Torture  has,  in 
most  other  jL,'-overnments  ot"  Europe,  been  abolished 
by  the  mild  spirit  of  the  times ;  but  it  reigns  here 
in  full  force  and  terror.  I  saw  officers  of  this  cruel 
court  employed  in  boring-  holes  with  rcdhot  wire?, 
in  the  cars,  nose,  and  various  parts  of  the  body, 
and  then  distending  them  with  the  weight  of  metal 
chains,  or  stones,  cut  into  a  variety  of  shapes  : 
some  had  invented  a  contrivance  for  cranqjing  the 
feet  in  such  a  manner  that  many  arc  lumcd  b}'  it 
ibr  their  whole  lives.  Others  I  saw,  slender  and 
delicate  in  their  form  and  naturally  nimble  as  the 
young  antelope,  who  were  obliged  to  carry  con- 
stantly about  with  them  a  cumbrous  unwieldy 
machine,  of  a  pyramidal  form,  several  ells  in  cir- 
cumfcrenee.     * 

But  the  most  common  and  one  of  the  worst  in- 
struments of  torture,  was  a  small  machine  armed 
with  fish-bone  and  ribs  of  steel,  wide  at  top  but 
extremely  small  at  bottom.  In  this  detestable  in- 
vention the  queen  orders  the  bodies  of  her  female 
subjects  to  be  inclosed :  it  is  then,  by  means  of 
silk  cords,  drawn  closer  and  closer  at  intervals,  till 
the  unhappy  victim  can  scarcely  breathe ;  and  they 
have  fouud  tlie  exact  point  that  can  be  borne  with- 
out fainting-,  which,  however,  not  unfrequently  hap- 
pens. The  flesh  is  often  excoriated,  and  the  very 
ribs  rent  by  this  cruel  process.  Yet  what  aston- 
ished  me  more  than  all  the  rest,  these  sufferings 
are  borne  with  a  degree  of  fortitude  which,  in  a 
better  cause,  would  immortalize  a  hero  or  canonize 
a  saint.  The  Spartan  who  suffered  the  fox  to  eat 
into  his  vitals,  did  not  bear  pajn  with  greater  reso- 
lution :  and  as  the  Spartan  mothers  brought  their 
children  to  be  scourged  at  the  altar  of  Diana,  so  do 
the  mothers  here  bring  their  children — and  chiefly 


240  TOLNG    lady's 

those  whose  tender  sex  one  would  suppose  excused 
tlicm  from  such  exertions, — and  early  inure  them 
to  this  cruel  discipline.  But  neither  Spartan,  nor 
Dervise,  nor  Bonze,  nor  Carthusian  monk,  ever 
exercised  more  unrelentingf  severities  over  their 
bodies,  than  those  young  z(  alots  :  indeed,  the  first 
lesson  they  arc  taucrht,  is  a  surrender  of  tlicir  own 
inclinations,  and  an  implicit  obedience  to  tlie  com- 
mands of  the  g-oddcss. 

But  they  have,  besides,  a  more  solemn  kind  of 
dedication,  something-  similar  to  the  rite  of  confirm- 
ation. When  a  young  woman  approaches  the  mar- 
riageable age,  she  is  led  to  the  altar ;  her  hair, 
which  before  fell  loosely  about  her  shoulders,  is 
tied  up  in  a  tress,  sweet  oils  drawn  from  roses  and 
Bpices  are  poured  upon  it;  she  is  involved  in  a 
cloud  of  scented  dust,  and  invested  v.'ith  ornaments 
under  which  she  can  scarcely  move.  After  this 
solemn  ceremony,  which  is  generally  concluded  by 
a  dance  round  the  altar,  the  damsel  is  obliged  to  a 
Htill  stricter  conformity  than  before  to  the  laws  and 
customs  of  the  court,  and  any  deviation  from  them 
is  severely  punished. 

The  courtiers  of  Alexander,  it  is  said,  flattered 
liim  by  carrying  their  heads  on  one  side,  because 
he  had  the  misfortune  to  have  a  wry  neck ;  but  all 
adulation  is  poor,  compared  to  what  is  practised  in 
this  court.  Sometimes  the  queen  will  lisp  and 
stammer, — and  then  none  of  her  attendants  can 
speak  plain :  sometimes  she  chooses  to  totter  as 
she  walks, — and  then  they  are  seized  with  sudden 
lameness:  according  as  she  appears  half-undressed, 
or  veiled  from  head  to  foot,  her  subjects  become  a 
procession  of  nuns,  or  a  troop  of  Bacchanalian 
nymphs.  I  could  not  help  observing,  however, 
iliat  those  who  stood  at  the  greatest  distance  from 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  241 

the  throne  were  the  most  cxtrava^rant  in  tlicir  imi- 
tation. 

I  was  by  this  time  tlioroughly  dipo-iistc d  with 
the  character  of  a  sovcreig-n  at  once  so  hg-ht  and 
60  cruel,  so  fickle  and  so  arbitrar}',  when  one  who 
stood  next  me  bade  me  attend  to  still  greater  con- 
tradictions  in  her  character,  and  such  as  might 
serve  to  soften  the  indignation  I  had  conceived. 
He  took  me  to  the  back  of  the  throne,  and  made 
me  take  notice  of  a  number  of  industrious  poor,  to 
whom  the  queen  was  secretly  distributing  bread. 
I  saw  the  Genius  of  Commerce  doing  her  homage, 
and  discovered  the  British  cross  woven  into  the 
insignia  of  her  dignity. 

While  I  was  musing  on  these  things,  a  murmur 
arose  among  the  crowd,  and  I  was  told  that  a 
young  votary  was  approaching.  I  turned  my  head, 
and  saw  a  light  figure,  the  folds  of  whose  garments 
showed  the  elegant  turn  of  tlie  limbs  they  covered, 
tripping  along  with  tlic  step  of  a  nymph.  I  soon 
knew  it  to  be  yourself: — I  saw  you  led  up  to  the 
altar, — I  saw  your  beautiful  hair  tied  up  in  artifi- 
cial tresses,  and  its  bright  gloss  stained  with  co- 
loured dust, — I  even  fancied  I  beheld  produced  the 
dreadful  instruments  of  torture  ; — my  emotions  in- 
creased : —  I  cried  out,  "O  spare  her  I  spare  my 
Flora  !"  with  so  much  vehemence  that  I  awaked. 
Mrs.  Barbauld. 


THE  CUCULLOS. 

Last  evening,  amidst  the  usual  sports  of  the  twi- 

light  hour,  on  the  hatey  of  the  plantation,  which  is 

tlie  square  on  which  the  buildings  stand,  I  could 

not  help  wishing  that  you  were  present  to  enjoy 

'16 


243  vouNG  lady's 

the  scene,  the  natural  ^fire-works  of  the  country,  as 
I  may  call  the  appearance  and  Ihght  of  the  cucul- 
los.  I  had  scarcely  arrived  in  the  island  (Cuba) 
before  this  splendid  insect  was  mentioned  by  all 
my  young-  acquaintances,  in  terms,  as  I  thought, 
of  enthusiasm  and  extravagance  natural  to  their 
age.  But  I  observed  that  the  elder  and  more  se- 
date were  almost  as  unmeasured  in  the  terms  of 
their  description. 

The  season  lor  them  has  come.  One  or  tw^o 
made  their  appearance  the  first  evening,  and  were 
hailed  like  the  first  notes  of  birds  in  tlie  spring. 
A  few  more  cheered  the  second  evening;  and  after 
a  lapse  of  a  week,  and  the  fall  of  a  heavy  shower, 
they  are  innumerable.  Their  sportive  hour  com- 
mences  with  twilight.  Out  sallies  the  family,  old 
and  young,  from  the  mansion,  to  gaze.  The  cucul- 
los  dart  in  all  directions,  like  so  many  brilliant 
stars  or  comets,  over  the  tops  of  plantations  and 
trees,  now  soaring,  and  again  descending.  Sud- 
denly they  wheel  from  one  direction  to  another, 
pursuing  and  pursued,  and  playing  their  circles 
round  each  other  with  a  sort  of  magical  enchant- 
ment. 

Our  glow-worm  and  fire-fly  are  not  to  be  men- 
tioned with  the  cucuUos.  The  light  which  these 
give  is  not  a  flash,  but  steady,  emitted  through  two 
large  eyes,  always  visible,  except  when  they  are 
flying  from  you ;  and  it  is  a  light  of  uncommon 
whiteness  and  purity,  not  like  the  red  glare  of  a 
lamp,  not  like  the  fiery  radiance  of  Mars,  but  the  - 
soft,  beams  of  Venus,  the  morning  and  evening  star. 
The  swiftness  and  irregularity  of  their  flight,  the 
distance  at  which  they  can  see  and  be  seen,  the 
diameter  of  the  circle  in  which  they  are  seen  to 
attract  each  otlier,  and  the  ardour  with  which  they 


BOOK    OF    rROSK.  243 

concentrate  to  a  meeting,  and  whirl  round  a  com- 
mon centre,  delight  the  spectator;  and  old  and 
young  are  alive  with  pretty  equal  glee. 

The  children  often  use  a  lamp  as  a  decoy,  and 
the  distant  cucullo  is  attracted  and  taken.  One 
cucullo  is  exhibited  to  attract  others  ;  and  hundreds 
fall  into  the  snare,  and  become  prisoners,  and  are 
kept  in  cages  prepared  for  them,  or  in  baskets  co- 
vered with  a  cloth.  They  are  apt  to  pine  in  con- 
finement, and,  without  great  skill  and  care,  they 
die.  It  is  usual  to  feed  them  with  cain  and  plan- 
tain; and  it  is  necessary  carefully  to  bathe  thera 
in  water,  and  dry  them  in  the  sun.  They  love  the 
dews  of  evening  and  showers  of  rain,  and  to  bask 
in  the  sun  ;  and  that  management  which  best  com- 
bines the  elements  of  their  comfort,  is  most  likely 
to  preserve  them  alive. 

While  the  family  is  amused  on  the  batey,  the 
negroes  are  playing  an  active  game  in  the  avenues, 
and  taking  as  many  of  these  splendid  captives  as 
possible.  The  negro  mothers  use  them  as  their 
nursing  lamps.  The  Creoles  are  seen  running 
about  with  them  in  their  hands,  aad  sometimes 
with  a  half-dozen  of  them  cruelly  strung  on  a  spire 
of  grass.  This  inhumanity  to  so  beautiful  an  insect 
ought  to  be  rebuked  by  their  masters;  but,  in  many 
cases,  it  would  be  done  with  an  ill  grace,  as  young 
ladies,  I  am  told,  adorn  their  persons,  for  evening 
assemblies,  with  a  string  of  cucullo  brilliants,  dis- 
posed on  their  necks  or  frocks,  wherever  they  may 
appear  to  the  best  advantage  ;  willing,  it  seems,  to 
lose  some  of  their  moral  charms,  to  display  their 
persons  in  the  greater  lustre,  and  to  the  better  ad- 
vantage. 

In  apology  for  this  feminine  custom,  it  is  said 
that  there  is  a  part  of  the  cucullo  v'  '  ' 


244  YOL'NG  lady's 

pierced  without  suffering  to  the  insect.  The  pre- 
cise amount  of  its  sufferings  with  tliis  kind  of 
usage,  the  insect  has  no  tongue  to  exj)lain.  With 
the  tenderest  treatment  they  expire  by  hundreds 
when  in  confinement.  Out  of  three  hundred  at- 
tempted to  be  carried  to  the  United  States,  by  an 
acquaintance  of  mine,  half-a-dozen  only  survived 
the  voyage.  A  distinguished  Spaniard,  whom  I 
know,  was  more  successful,  and  reached  New- 
Fork  with  fifty ;  and,  being  something  of  a  hu- 
mourist, he  gave  them  their  hberty  in  Broadway, 
in  a  fine  evening  for  the  purpose,  and  was  suffi- 
ciently diverted  by  the  astonishment  of  the  citizens, 
and  the  eagerness  of  a  thousand  boys  in  pursuit 
of  the  sparkling  fugitives.  Your  curiosity  to  see 
the  cucullo  is,  I  doubt  not,  sufficiently  roused ;  yet 
I  know  you  too  well  to  believe  that  you  would  de- 
sire that  pleasure  at  the  expense  of  the  pining  and 
death  of  nineteen  in  twenty,  in  leaving  their  own 
balmy  climate. 

The  cucullo  is  about  an  inch  and  a  half  long, 
and  one-fourth  of  an  inch  broad.  It  resembles  the 
snapping-bug  of  our  country,  though  a  little  longer. 
In  the  day-time  it  is  sleepy  ;  but  it  gives  a  light 
of  a  considerable  brilliancy  when  shaken.  In  the 
night,  they  give  light  enough  for  the  purposes  of 
the  nursery ;  and  young  eyes  can  see  to  read  by 
them. 

Dr.  Abbot. 


THE  TIXSTLE  FIELD. 


There  was  a  man,  a  day-labourer  he  had  been; 
but,  having  saved  a  little  money  from  his  earnings, 
tie  had  now  a  small  cottage  of  his  own.  Ambition, 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  S45 

like  many  other  things,  enlarges  in  the  feeding; 
and,  for  ten  years  past,  his  enjoyment  of  the  cot- 
tage had  been  disturbed  by  desire  for  a  field  that 
lay  beside  it.  The  time  came — the  savings  amount- 
ed to  exactly  the  right  sum,  and  the  good  man 
bought  the  field.  It  was  a  small  stony  field ;  it 
nad  produced  nothing  yet,  and  did  not  look  as  if  it 
intended  to. 

One  day,  as  I  passed,  T  asked  the  good  man 
what  he  meant  to  plant-  He  said,  "  it  was  to  grow 
wheat  by  and  by ;  but,  being  fallow  ground,  it 
would  want  a  good  deal  of  cultivating ;  it  would 
be  some  time  first;"  and  so,  indeed,  I  thought; 
more  particularly  as  he  had  expended  all  his  sub- 
stance in  purchasing  the  field,  and  had  not  money 
left  to  buy  a  load  of  manure,  or  scarcely  a  spade  to 
dig  it.  He  did  dig  it,  however,  for  I  saw  him  often 
at  the  work ;  whether  he  sowed  it,  I  cannot  say — 
most  likely  not,  for  nothing  came  up.  Possession, 
still,  is  great  enjoyment,  as  many  a  one  knows, 
who  has  property  that  makes  no  returns  ;  and,  for 
the  first  year,  he  was  quite  happy  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  having  a  field. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  second  year,  seeing  him 
stand  thoughtful  on  the  path,  "  Friend,"  I  said,  "do 
you  sow  your  field  this  year  V  "  Why,  likely,  I 
might,"  he  answered,  "  otherwise  than  that  I  have 
nothing  to  sow  it  with ;  and  it  would  be  lost  grain, 
besides ;  the  ground  is  not  rich  enough  for  com. 
In  a  few  years,  I  shall  be  able  to  buy  manure  for 
it ;  then  you  shall  see  a  crop !"  and  the  good  man's 
eye  lightened  at  the  thought  of  garnersfull  to  come. 
It  was  during  the  same  summer,  that,  passing 
through  the  ground,  a  scene  of  unusual  activity 
presented  itself;  man,  wife,  and  child,  were  all  in 
1^  field,  and  all  were  busy. 


246  YouxG  lady's 

**  What  now,  good  friend  ?"  I  said ;  "  this  is  no 
month  for  sowing  corn ;  and  I  cannot  say  your 
lap-full  looks  like  it."  Hodge  answered,  "  It  is  ill 
sowing  corn  upon  a  fallow  field;  but  I  ara  tired  of 
looking  at  it  as  it  is.  Till  the  time  that  I  can 
make  it  useful,  I  have  a  mind  to  make  it  pretty ; 
and  so  we  are  planting  it  all  over  with  these  this- 
tles." "Thistles!"  I  exclaimed.  "Why,  yes," 
said  Hodge,  with  the  look  of  a  man  who  has  solid 
reasoning  on  his  side.  "  I  was  walking,  the  other 
day,  upon  the  common,  thinking,  as  one  may  do, 
upon  my  fallow  field,  and  how  much  money  I 
wanted  of  enough  to  buy  manure  for  it,  when  my 
eye  was  taken  by  some  tall,  red  flowers,  growing 
in  plenty  on  the  waste.  They  looked  very  beauti- 
ful. The  fine  broad  leaves  lay  gracefully  folded 
upon  the  turf;  their  fringed  heads  shone  in  the 
sunbeams,  with  colovu-s  that  might  have  shamed 
the  rainbow. 

"■  Thistles  are  of  no  use,  I  know  ;  but  then  my 
ground  will  bear  nothing  better  at  present :  they 
will  look  pretty  from  the  window^  and  will  do  no 
harm  for  a  year  or  two :  so  here  we  are  all  at  work. 
I  have  fetched  them  from  the  common — seed,  roots 
and  all — and  next  summer  we  shall  see."  "  Friend,'* 
said  I,  "  I  have  seen  many  men  dig  up  thistles, 
but  I  never  thought  to  see  a  man  planting  them." 
"  But,  perhaps,"  said  Hodge,  with  a  conscious  su- 
periority of  wit,  "you  have  seen  them  plant  things 
not  half  so  pretty."  "  But  your  corn — how  is  youi- 
future  crop  to  grow,  if  you  fill  the  ground  with 
thistles  ?*•  "  Bless  your  heart,"  said  Hodge,  with 
a  look  of  contempt,  "  why,  tlien,  to  be  sure,  we  caii 
dig  them  up  again — time  enough  yet — may  be  you 
a'nt  used  to  digging." 

It  was  in  vain  to  resist  the  good  man*s  last  argu- 


BOOK    OF   PROSE.  247 

merit,  with  all  the  hidden  meaning's  with  which  liis 
tone  invested  it,  viz.  that  I  had  better  mind  my  own 
business ;  that  I  was  talking  about  what  I  did  not 
understand  ;  that  I  never  had  a  field  ;  and  that,  if  1 
had,  I  should,  in  waitings,  plant  it  over  with  this- 
tles : — therefore  I  passed  on.  So  did  summer  heats 
and  winter's  cold,  and  blithely  the  thistles  grew. 
The  common  never  bore  a  finer  crop ;  and,  with 
all  my  prejudice,  I  was  obliged  to  own  the  flowers 
looked  very  pretty. 

Meantime  the  good  man's  store  increased ;  the 
funds  were  forthcoming;  the  field  was  ploughed 
and  sown ;  the  wheat  came  up — and  so  did  the 
thistles.  A  chancer^  suit  could  not  have  ejected 
them  aflcr  so  long  possession.  They  had  all  the 
advantage ;  for,  while  the  M'heat  was  to  be  sown 
afresh  for  each  succeeding  year,  the  thistles  came 
up  of  themselves.  Tlien  they  wxre  goodly  and 
tall :  they  lifted  their  heads  to  the  sunbeams,  and 
scattered  their  seeds  in  the  breeze,  while  the  sickly 
wheat  lay  withering  in  their  shade,  I  did  not  ques- 
tion him  of  his  crops.  Every  spring  I  saw  him 
rooting  up  thistles,  and  every  summer  I  saw  the 
thistles  blow ;  and  for  every  one  he  left,  there  next 
year  came  up  twenty.  Whether,  as  years  ad- 
vanced, they  became  less  numerous,  or  whether  he 
lived  to  see  them  exterminated,  I  cannot  say  ;  I 
have  left  tliat  part  of  tlie  country. 

Do  my  readers  not  believe  my  story  ?  Is  my 
good  man's  folly  too  impossible  ?  Let  them  con- 
sider  a  little ;  for  I  have  seen  other  labourers  than 
he,  who  sow  a  harvest  they  would  be  loath  to  reap, 
and  trust  to  future  years  to  mend  it.  Of  those  who 
doubt  the  sanity  of  my  good  man,  Hodge,  many 
may  thoughtlessly  be  doing  the  same  thing ;  whe- 
ther they  be  parents,  whose  fondest  charge  is  tlic 


248  YOUNG  lady's 

education  of  their  children,  and  their  fondest  hopes 
its  produce  ;  or  whetlier  their  one  small  field  be  the 
yet  unsettled  character  of  their  own  youthful  mind. 

I  have  seen  a  father  encourage  his  boys  to  fight 
out  an  amateur  battle,  for  the  right  of  possession 
to  the  merest  toy,  and  yield  it  to  the  victor, — and 
when  1  asked  him  if  he  intended  his  boys  should 
in  after  life  take  possession,  by  force,  of  what  they 
could  not  prove  a  right  to,  he  said,  "  No,  but  boy 
must  learn  courage ;  they  would  know  better  than 
to  fight  for  what  does  not  belong  to  them,  when 
they  v/ere  men." 

I  have  seen  a  mother  take  her  daughters  to  a 
dancing-school,  to  be  taughtf;very  fashionable  ma- 
ncEuvre  of  the  ball-room  ;  and  when  I  asked  her  if 
she  meant  her  dauglitcrs  should  be  introduced  to 
amusements  she  did  not  herself  approve,  she  said, 
"  She  hoped  not ;  the  principles  she  laboured  to 
instil  would,  she  trusted,  prevent  it ;  but,  till  they 
were  of  an  age  to  feel  their  influence,  she  must  let 
them  do  as  others  do :  there  was  no  harm  in  chil- 
dren's dancing." 

I  have  seen  a  teacher  bring  tears  and  blushes 
upon  the  cheeks  of  a  pains-taking  booby,  by  show- 
ing him  the  achievements  of  his  brother,  assuring 
him,  that,  while  the  younger  brother  was  sent  to 
college,  he,  for  his  stupidity,  must  go  behind  the 
coimter.  I  asked  him  if  he  wished,  that,  when 
that  boy  became  a  man,  he  should  be  pained  by 
the  superiority  of  others,  or  ashamed  of  the  station 
to  which  Providence  assigned  him.  He  answered 
me,  "  No  ;  but  emulation  is  the  finest  thing  in  the 
world — it  is  impossible  to  make  any  thing  of  boys, 
without  the  stimulus  of  rivalry." 

I  have  asked  a  lady,  whose  children  I  saw  every 
evening  playing  at  cards  for  halfpence,  and  vehe- 


BOOK   OF   PROSE.  249 

mcntly  contending  for  success,  wliethcr  she  was 
bringing-  them  up  to  be  gamesters,  or  to  waste 
their  hours  in  frivolous  pursuits  and  unwholesome 
excitement  of  temper  and  feeling.  Half  laughing 
and  half  angry,  as  at  a  foolish  question,  she  said, 
"  Of  course  not ;  but  it  did  not  signify  how  chil- 
dren amused  themselves."  Of  another,  who  was 
cramming  her  children's  minds  with  most  perni- 
cious nonsense  in  the  form  of  books,  I  asked  if  she 
meant  that  they  should  be  weak,  ill-judging,  and 
romantic  women.  She,  too,  said,  "  No ;  but  chil- 
dren do  not  understand  sensible  books.  She  was 
glad  to  get  them  to  read  at  all,  and  should  givo 
them  better  books  when  they  were  older." 

A  few  times  in  my  life,  I  have  seen  parents 
take — no,  not  take,  (for  they  would  themselves 
have  been  ashamed  to  be  seen  there,)  but  send — 
their  children  to  the  theatre,  and  other  public 
places,  which  they  had  taught  them  to  consider 
inconsistent  with  the  spiritual  requirements  of  the 
gospel,  and  the  safe  conduct  of  a  corruptible  nature 
through  a  corrupting  world — alleging,  that  it  is  de- 
sirable, <at  a  certain  age,  to  let  young  people  taste 
these  pleasures,  that  they  may  better  api)reciate 
tlic  nature  and  tendency  of  them. 

Admit  that  the  thistle  may  be  rooted  out ;  that 
the  girl  who  is  taught  vanity,  will  not  be  vain 
when  she  becomes  a  Christian  woman ;  and  the 
youth  who  is  encouraged  in  oppression,  rivalry,  and 
pride,  will  not  be  contentious  or  dissatisfied  when  lie 
becomes  a  Christian  man; — still,  be  it  remembered, 
it  is  no  magic  touch  of  the  celestial  wand  that  con- 
verts the  bond-slave  of  earth  into  the  meet  inheritor 
of  heaven.  It  can  do  so — but  generally,  as  regards 
the  sanctification  of  the  heart,  after  it  has  been 
pardoned  and  renewed,  the  process  is  a  long,  and 


S50  YOUNG    lady's 

often  very  painful  one.  It  is  by  fire  that  gold  is 
purified.  By  many  a  painful  excision  tlie  eye  is 
made  single.  Sorrow  after  sorrow  comes ;  draught 
after  draught  of  misery  is  drained ;  and  the  heart 
has  sometimes  to  be  buried  beneath  the  wreck  of 
every  thing  it  has  loved  and  dcliglited  in,  before 
earth  and  self  can  be  cruslied  out  of  it.  Why  should 
we  be  so  mad,  so  unjust  to  our  children,  and  cruel 
to  ourselves,  as  to  increase  the  difficulty  of  the  cure, 
because  confident  it  will  in  the  issue  be  performed? 
Why  do  we  plant  our  ground  with  thistles,  because, 
after  years  of  labour,  they  may  be  rooted  out  ? 

Mrs.  Fry. 


THE  ROUGH  DIAMOND. 

A  ROUGH  diamond  lay  in  the  sand,  among  many 
other  ordinary  stones,  A  boy  picked  up  some  of 
them  to  play  with  and  carried  them  home,  together 
with  the  diamond,  but  he  knew  not  what  it  was. 
The  father  of  the  boy,  watching  his  play,  observed 
the  diamond,  and  said  to  his  son :  Give  me  that 
stone  !  The  boy  did  so,  and  smiled,  for  he  thought 
to  himself — what  will  my  father  do  with  that 
stone  ? 

But  he  took  and  skilfully  cut  the  stone  into  re- 
gular facets,  and  polished  the  diamond,  which  then 
sparkled  gloriously. 

Behold,  said  the  father,  here  is  the  stone  which 
thou  gavcst  to  me.  Then  was  the  boy  amazed  at 
tlie  brilliancy  of  the  stone,  and  cried  :  Father,  hovr 
hast  thou  wrought  this  change  ? 

I  knew,  said  the  father,  the  virtue  and  hidden 
properties  of  the*  crude  stone,  and  so  I  cleared  it 
from  the  crust  in  which  it  was  enveloped,  and  now 
it  shines  with  its  natural  splendour. 


BOOK  OF  rnosK.  251 

In  process  of  linio,  wl-.on  tho  boy  Jiiul  jrrown  up 
to  manliood,  his  liillicr  <,'-avr  liiin  the  precious  slouc, 
as  an  emblem  of  the  lieart  that  is  frct-d  I'roui  tU\ 
base  passions,  and  purified  by  virtue. 

Krummaciifr, 


THE  CANARY-BIKl). 

A  LITTLE  girl,  named  Caroline,  liad  a  sweet  littlo 
canary-bird.  It  sang  from  morning  until  night, 
;md  was  a  beautiful  creature,  yellow  as  gold,  with 
a  black  head.  Caroline  gave  him  seeds  to  eat  and 
cooling  groundsel,  and  now  and  then  a  lump  of 
sugar,  and  she  supplied  him  with  fresh  water  every 
day. 

But  all  at  once  the  bird  began  to  be  dull,  and 
one  morning  when  Caroline  came  to  change  his 
water,  the  poor  bird  lay  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the 
cage. 

The  child  immediately  burst  forth  into  loud  la- 
mentations over  Iier  little  favourite,  and  wejjt  ex 
ceedingly :  but  her  mother  went  and  bought  another 
bird,  which  sang  as  delightfully  as  the  first,  but 
surpassed  it  in  beauty  of  colour,  and  put  it  into 
the  cage. 

The  girl,  however,  wept  still  more  bitterly  when 
she  saw  the  new  bird.  Her  mother  was  much  sur- 
prised at  this,  and  said  :  IMy  dear  child,  why  dost 
thou  still  grieve  and  weep  thus  ?  Thy  tears  can- 
not recall  the  dead  bird  to  li^c,  and  here  thou  hast 
another,  in  no  respecf  vvbrsathan  that  which  thou 
hast  lost.  i' 

Ah,  dear  moth^^  answered  tlie  girl,  I  used  tho 
poor  bird  ill,  and  was  not  so  kind  to  liim  as  I  ought 
to  have  been. 


352  YOUNG  lady's 

My  dear  Caroline,  replied  her  mother,  hast  thou 
not  always  waited  on  him  assiduously  ? 

Ah,  no  I  interrupted  the  child ;  but  just  before 
he  died  I  did  not  carry  him  a  lump  of  sugar  that 
thou  gavest  me  for  him,  but  ate  it  myself.  Thus 
spake  the  girl,  and  she  gave  full  vent  to  her  tears. 

But  her  mother  did  not  smile  at  the  grief  of  the 
child ;  for  she  recognised  and  respected  the  sacred 
voice  of  nature  in  the  heart  of  her  daughter. 

Ah !  said  she,  what  must  be  the  feelings  of  an 
ungrateful  child  at  the  grave  of  his  parents  ! 

Krummacher. 


THE  HYACINTH. 

Emily  was  grieved  because  the  winter  lasted  so 
long ;  for  she  was  fond  of  flowers,  and  had  a  little 
garden,  in  which  she  raised  some  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful with  her  own  hands.  Therefore  did  she 
anxiously  desire  that  the  winter  might  pass  away, 
and  long  for  the  return  of  spring. 

See,  Emily,  said  her  father,  1  have  brought  thee 
a  flower-root,  but  thou  must  cultivate  it  thyself 
with  care. 

How  can  I,  father,  replied  the  maiden.  Every 
thing  is  buried  in  snow,  and  the  earth  is  as  hard  as 
a  stone  ! — Thus  spake  she,  for  she  knew  not  that 
flowers  may  be  reared  in  vases.  But  her  father 
gave  her  a  vase  with  mould,  and  Emily  put  the 
bulbs  into  it.  She  looked,  nevertheless,  at  her 
father,  and  smiled,  doubtful  whether  he  was  in 
earnest  in  what  he  had  said  :  for  she  imagined  that 
flowers  could  not  thrive  unless  they  had  the  azure 
sky  above  their  heads,  and  the  genial  breezes  of 
spring  about  them. 

In  a  few  days  the  mould  in  the  pot  was  raised, 


BOOK   OF    PROSE.  253 

*nd  green  leaves  pushed  it  up  on  their  points  and 
exposed  themselves  to  view.  Emily  was  overjoyed, 
and  she  acquainted  her  father,  her  mother,  and  the 
whole  household,  with  the  birth  of  the  young-  plant. 

How  little  is  required,  said  her  mother,  to  rejoice 
tlie  heart,  while  it  remains  true  to  nature  and 
innocence ! 

Emily  then  besprinkled  the  plant  with  water,  and 
smiled  complacently  upon  it. 

Her  father  observed  her,  and  said :  That  is  right, 
my  child.  Rain  and  dew  must  be  succeeded  by 
sun-shine.  The  beam  of  the  benevolent  eye  givcth 
value  to  the  bounty  which  tlie  hand  dispenses. 
Thy  plant  will  be  sure  to  thrive,  Emily. 

The  leaves  soon  shot  forth  entirely  above  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  and  were  of  a  lovely  green. 
Emily's  joy  was  greater  than  ever.  O,  said  she, 
with  an  overflowing  heart,  I  should  be  content, 
tliough  it  were  not  to  produce  any  flower ! 

More  will  be  given  to  thee,  said  her  father,  than 
thou  darest  hope  for.  This  is  tlie  reward  of  mo- 
deration, and  of  a  heart  that  is  content  with  little. 
He  showed  her  the  germ  of  the  flower,  which  lay 
hidden  between  the  leaves. 

Emily's  care  and  attention  increased  every  day 
as  the  blossom  gradually  unfolded  itself.  With 
delicate  hand  she  sprinkled  it  with  water,  and  when 
a  gleam  of  sun-shine  burst  forth  slie  carried  the 
plant  to  the  window,  and  her  breath,  light  as  the 
morning  breeze  that  plays  about  the  rose,  blew 
away  the  dust  which  had  settled  upon  its  leaves. 

O  the  sweet  union  of  the  tendercst  love  and  in- 
nocence !  said  the  mother. 

Emily's  thoughts  were  occupied  with  her  flower 
till  she  fell  asleep  at  night,  and  as  soon  as  she 
awoke  in  the  morning.   Ofl,en,  too,  did  her  dreams 


264  YOUNG  lady's 

present  to  her  view  her  hyacinth  in  full  blossom  ; 
and  when  in  the  morning  she  found  that  it  was 
not  yet  open,  she  was  under  no  concern  on  that 
accoimt,  and  said,  smiling  :  I  must  have  patience 
a  little  longer.  Sometimes  she  would  ask  lier  fa- 
ther in  what  hue  the  flower  would  be  arrayed ;  and 
when  she  had  gone  through  all  the  colours,  she 
would  cheerfully  say :  'Tis  all  one  to  me,  so  it  do 
but  blossom  ! 

At  length  the  blossom  appeared.  Early  one 
morning  twelve  little  bells  were  found  expanded. 
They  hung  down  in  the  full  bloom  of  youthful 
beauty,  between  five  broad  leaves  of  emerald  green. 
Their  colour  was  a  pale  red,  like  the  rays  of  the 
morning  dawn,  or  the  delicate  flush  on  Emily's 
cheek.  The  flower  diffused  around  a  fragrant 
odour.  .  It  was  a  serene  morning  in  the  month  of 
March. 

Emily's  joy  was  calm  and  silent,  as  she  knelt 
before  the  flower  and  gazed  upon  it.  Her  father 
approached,  and  he  looked  at  his  beloved  child  and 
at  the  hyacinth,  and  said :  Behold,  Emily,  what 
the  hyacinth  is  to  thee,  thou  art  to  us  ! 

The  maiden  sprang  up  and  tlirew  herself  into 
the  arms  of  her  father,  and  after  a  long  embrace, 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice  :  O  father  I  would  to  hea- 
ven  that  I  could  rejoice  your  hearts  as  you  have 
rejoiced  mine ! 

Krummacher. 


INTERVIEW  BETWEEN  LEICESTER  AND  THE 
COUNTESS  AT  KENILWORTH. 

The  Countess  Amy,  with  her  hair  and  her  gar- 
ments  dishevelled,  was  seated  upon  a  sort  of  couch 
m  an  attitude  of  the  deepest  afliiiction,  out  of  which 


BOOK  OF  riiosE.  255 

ghe  was  startled  by  the  openiiifr  of  tlie  door.  She 
turned  hastily  round,  and  fixintr  her  eye  on  Var- 
ney,  exclaimed,  "Wretch  !  art  thou  come  to  frame 
some  new  plan  of  villany  ?" 

Leicester  cut  short  her  reproaches  by  stepping 
forward,  and  droppinjr  Jiis  cloak,  while  he  said  in 
a  voice  rather  of  authority  than  of  affection,  "  It 
is  with  me,  madam,  you  have  to  commune,  not 
with  Sir  Richard  Varncy." 

The  change  effected  on  the  Countess's  look  and 
manner  was  like  magic.  "  Dudley  !"  she  exclaim- 
ed, "  Dudley  I  and  art  thou  come  at  last  ?"  And 
with  the  speed  of  lightning  she  flew  to  her  bus- 
band,  clung  around  his  neck,  and,  unheeding  the 
presence  of  Varney,  overwhelmed  him  with  ca- 
resses, while  she  bathed  his  face  in  a  flood  of  tears ; 
muttering,  at  the  same  time,  but  in  broken  and 
disjointed  monosyllables,  the  fondest  expressions 
which  love  teaches  his  votaries. 

Leicester,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  had  reason  to  be 
angry  with  his  lady  for  transgressing  his  com- 
mands, and  thus  placing  him  in  the  perilous  situa- 
tion  in  which  he  had  that  morning  stood.  But 
what  displeasure  could  keep  its  ground  before  these 
testimonies  of  affection  from  a  being  so  lovely, 
that  even  the  negligence  of  dress,  and  the  wither- 
ing effects  of  fear  and  grief,  which  would  have  im- 
paired  the  beauty  of  others,  rendered  hers  but  the 
more  interesting.  He  received  and  repaid  her  caress- 
es with  fondness,  mingled  with  melancholy,  the  last 
of  which  she  seemed  scarcely  to  observe,  until  the 
first  transport  of  her  own  joy  was  over  :  when, 
looking  anxiously  in  his  face,  she  asked  if  he  was  ill. 

"  Not  in  my  body.  Amy,"  was  his  answer. 

"  Then  I  will  be  well  "too.— O  Dudley  !  I  have 
been  ill  I — very  ill,  since  we  last  met  I — for  I  call 


256  YOUNG    LADY  S 

not  this  morning's  horrible  vision  a  meeting.  I 
have  been  in  sickness,  in  grief,  and  in  danger. — 
But  thou  art  come,  and  all  is  joy,  and  health,  and 
safety." 

"  Alas  !  Amy,"  said  Leicester,  "  thou  hast  un- 
done me  !" 

"  I,  my  lord,"  said  Amy,  her  cheek  at  once  losing 
its  transient  flush  of  joy — "  how  could  I  injure  that 
which  I  love  better  than  myself?" 

"  I  would  not  upbraid  you.  Amy,"  replied  the 
Earl ;  "  but  are  you  not  here  contrary  to  my  ex- 
press commands — and  does  not  your  presence  here 
endanger  both  yourself  and  me  ?" 

"  Does  it,  does  it  indeed  !"  she  exclaimed  eager- 
ly ;  "  then  why  am  I  here  a  moment  longer  ?  O 
if  you  knew  by  what  fears  I  was  urged  to  quit 
Cumnor  Place  ! — but  I  will  say  nothing  of  myself 
— only  that  if  it  m.ight  be  otherwise,  I  would  not 
willingly  return  thither ;  yet  if  it  concern  your 
safety" 

"  We  will  think,  Amy,  of  some  other  retreat," 
said  Leicester ;  "  and  you  shall  go  to  one  of  my 
Northern  castles,  under  the  personage — it  will  be 
but  needful,  I  trust,  for  a  very  few  days — of  Var- 
ney's  wife." 

"  How,  my  Lord  of  Leicester  !"  said  the  lady, 
disengaging  herself  from  his  embraces  ;  "  is  it  to 
your  wife  you  give  the  dishonourable  counsel  to 
acknowledge  herself  the  bride  of  another — and  of 
all  men,  the  bride  of  that  Varney  ?" 

"  Madam,  I  speak  it  in  earnest — Varney  is  my 
true  and  faithful  servant,  trusted  in  my  deepest  se- 
crets. I  had  better  lose  my  right  hand  than  his 
service  at  this  moment.  You  have  no  cause  to 
scorn  him  as  you  do." 

"  I  could  assign  one,  my  lord,"  replied  the  Comi- 


LOOK    OK    PROSE.  257 

tess ;  "  and  I  sec  he  shakes  even  under  that  as- 
sured look  of  his.  Cut  he  that  is  necessary  as  your 
right  hand  to  your  safety,  is  free  ironi  any  accusa- 
tion of  mine.  May  he  be  true  to  you ;  and  th;il 
he  may  be  true,  trust  him  not  too  much  or  tco  iar. 
But  it  is  enough  to  say,  that  I  will  not  go  with 
him  unless  by  violence,  nor  would  I  acknowledge 
him  as  my  husband,  were  all" 

"  It  is  a  temporary  deception,  madam,"  said 
Leicester,  irritated  by  her  opposition,  "  necessary 
for  both  our  safeties,  endangered  by  you  through 
female  caprice,  or  the  premature  desire  to  seize  on 
a  rank  to  which  I  gave  you  title,  only  under  condi- 
tion that  our  marriage,  for  a  time,  should  continue 
secret.  If  my  proposal  disgust  you,  it  is  yourself 
has  brouglit  it  on  both  of  us.  There  is  no  other 
remedy — you  must  do  what  your  own  impatient 
folly  hath  rendered  necessary — I  command  you." 

"  I  cannot  put  your  comynands,  my  lord,"  said 
Amy,  "  in  balance  witli  those  of  honour  and  con- 
science. I  will  NOT,  in  this  instance,  obey  you. 
You  may  achieve  your  ov/n  dishonour,  to  which 
these  crooked  policies  naturally  tend,  but  I  will 
do  nauglit  that  can  blc:riish  mine.  How  could  you 
again,  my  lord,  acknowledge  me  as  a  pure  and 
chaste  matron,  worthy  to  share  your  fortunes, 
when,  holding  that  high  character,  I  had  strolled 
ihe  country  the  acknowledged  wife  of  such  a  pro- 
digate  fellow  as  your  servant  Varncy  !" 

"  My  lord,"  said  Varney  interposing,  "  my  lady 
is  too  much  prejudiced  against  me,  unhappily,  to 
listen  to  v/hat  I  can  offer ;  yet  it  may  please  her 
better  than  what  she  proposes.  She  has  good  in- 
terest with  Master  Edmund  Tressilian,  and  could 
doubtless  prevail  on  him  to  consent  to  be  her  com- 
uanion  to  Lidcote-IIall,  and  there  she  might  remain 
17 


258  YOUNG    LADY  3 

in  safety  until  time  permitted  the  devclopcment  of 
this  mystery." 

Leicester  was  silent,  but  stood  looking  eagerly 
on  Amy,  with  eyes  which  seemed  suddenly  to  glow 
as  much  with  suspicion  as  displeasure. 

The  Countess  only  said,  "  Would  to  God  I  were 
in  my  father's  house ! — Wlicn  I  left  it,  I  little 
thought  I  was  leaving  peace  of  mind  and  honour 
behind  me." 

Varney  proceeded  with  a  tone  of  deliberation, 
"  Doubtless  this  will  make  it  necessary  to  take 
strangers  into  my  lord's  counsels ;  but  surely  the 
Countess  will  be  warrant  for  the  honour  of  Master 
Tressilian,  and  such  of  her  father's  family" 

"  Peace,  Varney,"  said  Leicester  ;  "  by  Heaven 
I  will  strike  my  dagger  into  thee,  if  again  thou 
namest  Tressilian  as  a  partner  of  my  counsels  !" 

"  And  wherefore  not  ?"  said  the  Countess ;  "  un- 
less they  be  counsels  fitter  for  such  as  Varney, 
than  for  a  man  of  stainless  honour  and  integrity. 
— My  lord,  my  lord,  bend  no  angry  brows  on  me 
— it  is  the  truth,  and  it  is  I  who  speak  it.  I  once 
did  Tressilian  wrong  for  your  sake — I  will  not  do 
him  the  farther  injustice  of  being  silent  when  his 
honour  is  brought  in  question.  I  can  forbear,"  she 
said,  looking  at  Varney,  "  to  pull  the  mask  off  hy- 
pocrisy, but  I  will  not  permit  virtue  to  be  slander- 
ed in  my  hearing." 

There  was  a  dead  pause.  Leicester  stood  dis- 
pleased, yet  undetermined,  and  too  conscious  of 
tlie  weakness  of  his  cause ;  while  Varney,  with  a 
deep  and  hypocritical  affectation  of  sorrow,  min- 
gled with  humility,  bent  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

It  was  then  that  the  Countess  Amy  displayed, 
in  the  midst  of  distress  and  difficulty,  the  natural 
energy  of  character,  which  would  have  rendered 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  i*.).) 

her,  had  fate  allowed,  a  disting-uishod  ornament  of 
the  rank  which  she  held.  Slie  walked  up  to  Lri- 
cester  with  a  composed  step,  a  dij^niified  air,  and 
looks  in  which  strong  affection  essayed  in  vain  to 
shake  the  firmness  of  conscious  truth  and  recti- 
tude of  principle. ,  "You  have  sjjokc  your  mind, 
my  lord,"  she  said,  "  in  these  dillicultics  witli 
which,  unhappily,  I  have  found  myself  unal)le  f<> 
comply.  Tliis  gentleman — this  person  I  would 
say — has  hinted  at  another  scheme,  to  whieli  I 
object  not  but  as  it  displeases  you.  Will  your  lord- 
ship be  pleased  to  hear  what  a  young  and  timid 
woman,  but  your  most  affectionate  wife,  can  sug- 
gest in  the  present  extremity  ?" 

Leicester  was  silent,  but  bent  his  head  towards 
the  Countess,  as  an  intimation  that  she  was  at 
liberty  to  proceed. 

"  There  hath  been  but  one  cause  for  all  these 
evils,  my  lord,"  she  proceeded,  "  and  it  resolves 
itself  into  the  mysterious  duplicity  with  which  you 
have  been  induced  to  surround  yourself  Extricate 
yourself  at  once,  my  lord,  from  the  tyranny  of 
these  disgraceful  trammels.  Be  like  a  true  Eng. 
lish  gentleman,  knight  and  earl,  who  holds  that 
truth  is  the  foundation  of  honour,  and  that  honour 
is  dear  to  him  as  the  breath  of  his  nostrils.  Take 
your  ill-fated  wife  by  the  hand,  lead  her  to  the 
footstool  of  J^lizabeth's  throne — say  that  in  a  mo- 
ment  of  infatuation,  moved  by  supposed  beauty, 
of  which  none  perhaps  can  now  trace  even  the  re- 
mains, I  gave  my  hand  to  this  Amy  Robsart, — 
You  will  then  have  done  justice  to  me,  my  lord, 
and  to  your  own  honour ;  and  should  law  or  power 
require  you  to  part  from  me,  I  will  oppose  no  ob- 
jection— since   I  may  then  with  honour  hide  a 


260  YOUNG  lady's 

grieved  and  broken  heart  in  those  shades  from 
which  your  love  withdrew  me." 

There  was  so  much  of  dignity,  so  much  of  ten- 
derness in  llie  Countess's  remonstrance,  that  it 
moved  all  tliat  was  noble  and  generous  in  the  soul 
of  her  husband.  The  scales  seemed  to  fall  from 
ills  eyes,  and  tlic  duplicity  and  tergiversation  of 
which  he  had  been  guilty,  stung  him  at  once  with 
remorse  and  shame. 

"  I  am  not  worthy  of  you.  Amy,"  he  said,  "that 
could  weigh  aught  wliich  ambition  has  to  give 
against  such  a  heart  as  thine.  I  have  a  bitter 
penance  to  perform,  in  disentangling,  before  sneer- 
ing foes  and  astounded  friends,  all  the  meshes  of 
my  own  deceitful  poIicy.-^And  the  Queen — but 
let  her  take  my  liead,  as  she  has  threatened." 

"  Your  head,  my  lord  !"  said  the  Countess ;  "  be- 
cause you  used  the  freedom  and  liberty  of  an  Eng- 
lish subject  in  choosing  a  wife  ?  For  shame  !  it  is 
this  distrust  of  the  Queen's  justice,  this  apprehen- 
Bion  of  danger  which  cannot  but  be  imaginary, 
that,  like  scare-crows,  have  induced  you  to  Ibrsake 
the  straight-forward  path,  v^'hich,  as  it  is  the  best, 
is  also  the  safest." 

"  Ah,  Amy,  thou  little  knowest !"  said  Dudley  : 
but,  instantly  checking  himself,  he  added,  "Yet 
she  shall  not  find  in  me  a  safe  or  easy  victim  of 
arbitrary  vengeance — I  have  friends — I  have  allies 
— I  will  not,  like  Norfolk,  be  dragged  to  the  block, 
as  a  victim  to  sacrifice.  Fear  not,  Amy ;  thou 
shalt  see  Dudley  bear  himself  worthy  of  his  name. 
I  must  instantly  communicate  with  some  of  those 
friends  on  whom  I  can  best  rely ;  for,  as  things 
stand,  I  may  be  made  prisoner  in  my  own  Castle." 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  261 

•*  O,  my  good  lord,"  said  Amy,  "  make  no  fac- 
tion in  a  peaceful  state  !  Tlicre  is  no  iricnd  can 
help  us  so  well  as  our  own  candid  truth  and  honour. 
Bring  but  these  to  our  assistance,  and  you  are  sale 
amidst  a  whole  army  of  the  envious  and  malignant. 
Leave  these  beliind  you,  and  all  other  del'ence  will 
be  fruitless — Truth,  my  noble  lord,  is  well  painted 
unarmed." 

"  But  Wisdom,  Amy,"  ansv.'crcd  Leicester,  "  is 
arrayed  in  panoj)Iy  of  proof.  Argue  not  with  mo 
on  tiie  means  I  shall  use  to  render  my  confession 
— since  it  must  be  called  so — as  sale  as  ma}'  be ; 
it  will  be  fraught  with  enough  of  danger,  do  what 
we  will. — Varney,  we  must  hence.  Farewell,  Amy, 
whom  I  am  to  vindicate  as  mine  own,  at  an  ex- 
pense and  risk  of  which  thou  alone  couldst  be  wor- 
thy.    You  shall  soon  liear  farther  from  me." 

He  embraced  her  fervently,  muffled  himself  a« 
before,  and  accompanied  Varney  from  the  apart- 
ment. The  latter,  as  he  left  the  room,  bowed  low, 
and,  as  he  raised  his  body,  regarded  Amy  with  a 
peculiar  expression,  as  if  he  desired  to  know  how 
far  his  own  pardon  was  included  in  the  reconcilia- 
tion wliich  had  taken  place  betwixt  her  and  her 
lord.  The  Countess  looked  upon  him  witli  a  fixed 
eye,  but  seemed  no  more  conscious  of  his  presence, 
than  if  there  had  been  nothing  but  vacant  air  on 
the  spot  where  he  stood. 

"  She  has  brought  me  to  the  crisis,"  he  mutter- 
ed— "  She  or  I  are  lost.  Tiiere  was  something,  I 
wot  not  if  it  was  fear  or  pity,  that  prompted  me  to 
avoid  tills  fatal  crisis.  It  is  now  decided — She  or 
I  must  perish.''^ 

Sir  W.  Scott. 


YOUNG    LADY  S 


AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING. 

It  was  a  fine  autumnal  day,  the  sky  was  clear 
and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden 
livery  which  we  always  associate  witli  the  idea  of 
abundance.  The  forests  had  put  on  their  sober 
brown  and  yellow,  while  some  trees  of  tlie  tenderer 
kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frosts  into  brilliant 
dyes  of  orange,  purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming 
files  of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  their  appearance 
high  in  the  air ;  the  bark  of  the  squirrel  might  be 
heard  from  the  groves  of  beach  and  liickory  nuts, 
and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail  at  intervals 
from  the  neiglibouring  stubble  field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  tlieir  farewell  ban- 
quets. In  the  fiiUness  of  their  revelry,  they  flut- 
tered, chirping  and  frolicking,  from  bush  to  bush, 
and  tree  to  tree,  capricious  from  tlic  very  profusion 
and  variety  around  them.  There  was  the  honest 
cock-robin,  the  favourite  game  of  stripling  sports- 
men, with  its  loud  querulous  note ;  and  the  twit- 
tering blackbirds  flying  in  sable  clouds ;  and  the 
golden-winged  wood-pecker,  with  his  crimson 
crest,  his  broad  black  gorget  and  splendid  plumage  ; 
and  the  cedar  bird,  with  his  red  tipt  wings  and 
yellow  tipt  tail,  and  its  little  monteiro  cap  of  fea- 
thers ;  and  tJie  blue  jay,  that  noisy  coxcomb,  in  his 
gay  light  blue  coat  and  white  under  clothes,  scream- 
ing  and  chattering,  nodding,  and  bobbing,  and  bow- 
ing, and  pretending  to  be  on  good  terms  with  every 
songster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye, 
ever  open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance, 
ranged  with  delight  over  the  treasures  of  jolly  au- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  2b3 

tumn.  On  all  sides  ho  beheld  vast  store  of  apples, 
some  hanging  in  opi)ressivc  ojjulence  on  tiie  trect*, 
some  gathered  into  baskets  and  barrels  for  thf 
market,  others  heaj)ed  np  in  rich  piles  Ibr  the  eidcr- 
prcss.  Further  on  he  beheld  great  fields  of  Indian 
corn,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping  from  their  leafy 
coverts,  and  holding  out  the  promise  of  cakes  and 
hasty  pudding ;  and  the  yellow  pumpkins  lying 
beneath  them,  turning  uj)  their  fair  round  bellies 
to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  prospects  of  the  mo^l 
luxurious  of  pies;  ana  anon  ho  passed  the  fragrant 
buckwheat  fields,  breatliing  the  odour  of  the  bee- 
hive, and  as  he  beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole 
over  his  mind  of  dainty  slap-jacks,  well  buttered, 
and  garnished  with  honey  or  treacle,  by  tiic  deli- 
cate little  dimpled  hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet 
thoughts  and  "  sugared  suppositions,"  he  jour- 
neyed along  the  sides  of  a  range  of  hills  which 
look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest  scenes  of  the 
mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheeled  his 
broad  disk  down  into  tlic  west.  The  wide  bosom 
of  the  Tappaan  Zee  lay  motionless  and  glassy,  ex- 
cepting that  here  and  there  a  gentle  undulation 
waved  and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of  the  dis- 
tant mountain  ;  a  dw  amber  clouds  tloated  in  tiie 
sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  Tlie 
horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing  gradu- 
ally  into  a  pure  apple  green,  and  from  that  into  a 
deep  blue  of  the  mid-heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lin- 
gered on  the  woody  crests  of  the  precipices  that 
overhung  some  parts  of  tlic  river,  giving  greater 
depth  to  the  dark  gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky 
sides.  A  sloop  was  loitering  in  tlie  distance,  drop 
ping  slowly  down  with  the  tide,  her  sail  hanging 


264  TOUNO  lady's 

uselessly  against  the  mast,  and  as  tlic  reflection  of 
the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  an 
if  the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air. 

W.  InviNc;. 


THE  STORM  SHIP. 

In  the  golden  age  of  the  province  of  the  New 
Netherlands,  when  it  was  under  the  sway  of  Wou- 
ter  Van  Twiller,  otherwise  called  Walter  the  Doubt- 
er, the  people  of  the  Manhattoes  were  alarmed,  one 
sultry  afternoon,  just  about  the  time  of  the  summer 
solstice,  by  a  tremendous  storm  of  thunder  and 
lightning.  The  rain  descended  in  such  torrents 
as  absolutely  to  spatter  up  and  smoke  along  the 
ground.  It  seemed  as  if  the  thunder  rattled  and 
rolled  over  the  very  roofs  of  the  houses.  The  light- 
ning was  seen  to  play  about  the  church  of  St.Nich. 
olas,  and  to  strive  three  times,  in  vain,  to  strike  its 
weather-cock.  Garret  Van  Home's  ncv/  chimney 
was  split  almost  from  top  to  bottom,  and  Doffue 
Mildeberger  was  struck  speechless  from  his  bald- 
faced  mare,  just  as  he  was  riding  into  town.  In  a 
word,  it  v/as  one  of  those  unparalleled  storms  that 
only  happen  once  within  the  memory  of  tliat  ve- 
nerable personage,  known  in  all  towns  by  the  ap- 
pellation of  "  the  oldest  inhabitant." 

Great  was  the  terror  of  the  good  old  v.'omen  of 
the  Manhattoes ;  they  gathered  their  children  to- 
gether and  took  refuge  in  the  cellars,  after  having 
hung  a  shoe  on  tlie  iron  point  of  every  bed-post, 
lest  they  should  attract  the  lightning.  At  length 
the  storm  abated ;  the  thunder  sunk  into  a  growl, 
and  the  setting  sun,  breaking  from  .under  the 
fringed  borders  of  the  clouds,  made  the  broad  bo- 
s^xn  of  the  bay  to  gleam  like  a  sea  of  molten  gold. 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  Sfio 

The  word  was  given  from  the  fort  that  a  ship 
was  standin<r  up  the  ba3^  It  passed  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  and  street  to  street,  and  soon  put  the  lit- 
tle capital  in  a  bustle.  The  arrival  of  a  ship,  in 
those  early  times  of  the  settlement,  was  an  event 
of  vast  importance  to  the  inhabitants.  It  brouglit 
tliem  news  from  the  old  world,  from  the  land  of 
their  birth,  from  which  they  were  so  completely 
severed.  To  the  yearly  ship,  too,  they  looked  for 
their  supply  of  luxuries,  of  finery,  of  comforts,  and 
almost  of  necessaries.  The  good  vrouw  could  not 
have  her  new  cap,  nor  new  gown,  until  the  arrival 
of  the  ship ;  the  artist  waited  for  it  for  liis  tools ; 
the  burgomaster  for  his  pipe  and  his  supply  of  hol- 
lands ;  the  schoolboy  for  liis  top  and  marbles ;  and 
the  lordly  landholder  for  the  bricks  with  which  he 
was  to  build  his  new  mansion.  Thus  every  one, 
rich  and  poor,  great  and  small,  looked  out  tor  the 
arrival  of  "  The  Sliip."  It  was  the  great  yearly 
event  of  the  town  of  New  Amsterdam  ;  and  Irom 
one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other,  the  shi]) — tlic 
ship — the  ship — was  the  continual  topic  of  con 
vcrsation. 

The  news  from  the  fort,  therefore,  brought  all 
the  populace  down  to  the  battery,  to  behold  the 
wished  for  sight,  ft  was  not  exactly  the  time 
when  she  had  been  expected  to  arrive,  and  the 
circumstance  was  a  matter  of  some  speculation. 
Many  were  the  groups  collected  about  the  battery. 
Here  and  there  might  be  seen -a' -burgomaster  of 
slow  and  pompous  gravity,  giving  nis  opinion  witJi 
great  confidence  to  a  crowd  of  old  women  and  idle 
boys.  At  another  place  was  a  knot  of  old  weather 
beaten  fellows,  who  had  been  seamen  or  fishermen 
in  their  times,  and  were  great  authorities  on  such 
occasions:  these  gave  different  opinions,  and  caused 


266  YOUNG  lady's 

great  disputes  among  their  several  adherents.  But 
the  man  most  looked  up  to,  and  followed  and 
watched  by  the  crowd  was  Hans  Van  Pelt,  an  old 
Dutch  sea-captain  retired  from  service  ;  the  nauti- 
cal oracle  of  the  place.  He  reconnoitred  the  ship 
through  an  ancient  telescope,  covered  with  tarry 
canvas,  hummed  a  Dutch  tune  to  himself,  and 
said  nothing — a  hum,  however,  from  Hans  Van 
Pelt  had  always  more  weight  with  tlie  public  than 
a  speech  from  another  man. 

In  the  mean  time  the  sliip  became  more  distinct 
to  the  naked  eye.  She  was  a  stout,  round,  Dutch 
built  vessel,  with  high  bow  and  poop,  and  bearing 
Dutch  colours.  The  evening  sun  gilded  her  belly- 
ing canvas,  as  she  came  riding  over  the  long 
waving  billows.  Tiie  sentinel  who  had  given  no- 
tice of  her  approach  declared,  that  he  first  got 
sight  of  her  when  she  was  in  the  centre  of  the 
bay  ;  and  that  she  broke  suddenly  upon  his  sight, 
just  as  if  she  had  come  out  of  the  bosom  of  the  black 
timnder  cloud.  The  by-standers  looked  at  Hans 
Van  Pelt  to  see  w^hat  he  would  say  to  this  report 
Hans  Van  Pelt  screwed  his  mouth  closer  together 
and  said  nothing;  upon  whicli  some  shook  their 
heads,  and  others  shrugged  their  slioulders. 

The  ship  was  now  repeatedly  hailed,  but  made 
no  reply,  and  passing  by  the  fort,  stood  on  up  the 
Hudson.  A  gun  was  brought  to  bear  on  her,  and, 
with  some  difficulty,  loaded  and  fired  by  Hans  Van 
Pelt,  the  garrison  not  being  expert  in  artillery. 
The  shot  seemed  absolutely  to  pass  through  the 
ship,  and  to  skip  along  the  water  on  the  other  side, 
but  no  notice  was  taken  of  it.  What  was  strange, 
she  had  all  her  sails  set,  and  sailed  riglit  against 
wind  and  tide,  which  v/ere  both  down  the  river. 

Upon  tliis  Hans  Van  Pelt,  who  was  likewise 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  2G7 

harbour  master,  ordered  his  boat,  and  set  ofT  to 
board  her,  but  after  rowing  for  two  or  tbrcc  hours 
he  returned  witliout  suecess.  Sonietinu-s  he  would 
get  within  one  or  two  hundred  yards  of  her,  and 
then,  in  a  twinkUng-,  she  would  be  lialf  a  mile  otT. 
Sonic  said  it  was  because  his  oarsmen,  who  were 
rather  pursy  and  short-winded,  stopped  every  now 
and  then  to  take  breath,  and  spit  on  their  hands  ; 
but  tliis,  it  is  probable,  was  a  mere  scandal.  Ho 
got  near  enoug-h,  however,  to  see  the  crew,  who 
were  all  dressed  in  the  Dutch  style;  the  oflieers  in 
doublets  and  high  hats  and  feathers.  Not  a  word 
was  spoken  by  txriy  one  on  board ;  tliey  stood  as 
motionless  as  so  many  statues  ;  and  the  sliip  seem- 
ed as  if  left  to  her  own  government.  Tims  she 
kept  on,  away  up  the  river,  lessening  and  lessening 
in  the  evening  sunshine,  until  she  faded  from  sight, 
like  a  little  while  cloud,  melting  away  in  a  sum- 
mer sky. 

The  appearance  of  this  ship  tlu-cw  the  governor 
into  one  of  the  deepest  doubts  that  ever  beset  hin» 
in  the  whole  course  of  his  administration.  Fears 
were  entertained  for  the  security  of  the  infant  set- 
tlements on  the  river,  lest  this  might  be  an  ene- 
my's ship  in  disguise  sent  to  take  possession.  The 
governor  called  his  council  repeatedly  to  assist  him 
with  their  conjectures.  He  sat  in  his  chair  of  state, 
built  of  timber  from  the  sacred  forest  of  the  Hague; 
and  smoked  his  long  jasmin  pipe  ;  and  listened  to 
all  that  his  counsellors  had  to  say,  on  a  subject 
about  which  they  knew  nothing ;  but  in  spite  of 
all  the  conjecturing  of  the  sagest  and  oldest  hcuds, 
the  governor  still  continued  to  doubt. 

Messengers  were  dispatched  to  dilViTcnt  places 
on  the  river;  but  they  returned  without  any  tidings; 
the  ship  had  made  no  port.     Day  alUr  day,  and 


268  TouNG  lady's 

week  after  v/cck  elapsed ;  but  slic  never  returned 
down  the  Hudson.  As,  however,  the  council  seem- 
ed solicitous  for  iiitcUigenee,  they  soon  had  it  in 
abundance.  The  captains  of  the  sloops  seldom 
arrived  without  bringing  some  report  of  liaving 
seen  the  strange  ship,  at  different  parts  of  the 
river.  Sometimes  near  the  Palisadoes ;  some- 
times olT  Croton  Point,  and  sometimes  in  tlie 
Highlands;  but  she  was  never  reported  as  hav- 
ing been  seen  above  the  Highlands.  The  crews 
of  the  sloops,  it  is  true,  generally  differed  among 
tliemselves  in  their  accounts  of  these  apparitions ; 
but  that  may  have  arisen  from  the  uncertain  situ- 
ations in  which  they  saw  her.  Sometimes  it  was 
by  the  flashes  of  a  thunder  storm,  lighting  up  a 
pitchy  night,  and  giving  glimpses  of  her  careering 
across  Tappaan  Zee,  or  the  wide  waste  of  Haver- 
straw  Bay.  At  one  moment  she  would  appear 
close  upon  them,  as  if  likely  to  run  them  down  : 
and  would  throw  them  into  great  bustle  and  alarm, 
when  the  next  flash  would  show  her  far  ofl';  al- 
ways sailing  against  the  wind.  Sometimes,  in 
quiet  moonlight  nights,  she  would  be  seen  under 
some  high  bluff  of  the  Highlands,  all  in  deep  sha- 
dow,  excepting  her  top-sails  glittering  in  the  moon- 
beams. By  the  time,  however,  that  the  voyagers 
would  reach  the  place,  there  would  be  no  ship  to 
be  seen ;  and  when  they  had  passed  on  for  some 
distance,  and  looked  back,  behold  I  there  she  was 
again,  with  her  top-sails  in  the  moonshine  !  Her 
appearance  was  always  just  after,  or  just  before, 
or  just  in  the  midst  of  unruly  weather ;  and  she 
was  known  by  all  the  skippers  and  voyagers  of  tlic 
Hudson  by  the  name  of  "  the  Storm  Ship." 

These  reports  perplexed  the  governor  and  his 
council  more  than'  ever :  and  it  would  be  endless 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  265 

to  repeat  the  conjectures  and  opinions  that  were 
uttered  on  the  subject.  Some  quoted  cases  in  ]K)'ini 
of  ships  seen  off  the  coast  of  New-England  navi- 
gated  by  witches  and  gobhns.  Old  Hans  Van 
Pelt,  who  had  been  more  tlian  once  to  the  Dutch 
colony  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  insisted  that  this 
must  be  the  Flying  Dutchman,  which  liad  so  long 
haunted  Table  Bay,  but  being  unable  to  make  port, 
had  now  sought  another  harbour.  Others  suggest- 
ed that,  if  it  really  was  a  supernatural  apparition, 
as  there  was  every  natural  reason  to  believe,  it 
might  be  Hendriek  Hudson  and  his  crew,  of  the 
Half  Moon ;  who,  it  was  well  known,  had  once  run 
aground  in  the  upper  part  of  the  river,  in  seeking 
a  north-w^est  passage  to  China.  This  opinion  had 
very  little  weight  with  tlie  governor ;  but  it  passed 
current  out  of  doors.  Indeed,  it  had  already  been 
reported  that  Hendriek  Hudson  and  his  crew 
haunted  the  Kaatskill  Mountain  ;  and  it  appeared 
very  reasonable  to  suppose  that  his  ship  might  in- 
fest the  river  where  the  enterprise  was  baffled  ;  or 
that  it  might  bear  the  shadowy  crew  to  their  peri- 
odical revels  in  the  mountain. 

Other  events  occurred  to  occupy  the  tlioughts 
and  doubts  of  the  sage  Wouter  and  his  council ; 
and  the  Storm  Ship  ceased  to  be  a  subject  of  de- 
liberation at  the  board.  It  continued,  however,  to 
be  a  matter  of  popular  belief  and  marvellous  anec- 
dote throughout  the  whole  time  of  the  Dutch  go- 
vernment; and  particularly  just  before  the  capture 
of  New-Amsterdam,  and  the  subjugation  of  tlio 
province,  by  the  English  squadron.  About  that 
time  the  Storm  Ship  was  repeatedly  seen  in  the 
Tappaan  Zee  ;  about  Weehawk,  and  even  down 
as  far  as  Hobokm,  i  nd  her  appearance  was  sup- 
posed to  be  ominous  of  t'le  npproacliing  squall  in 


270  YOUNG  lady's 

public  affairs,  and  the  downfall  of  Dutch  domina- 
tion. 

Since  that  time  we  have  no  authentic  accounts 
of  her,  thoug-h  it  is  said  she  still  haunts  the  High. 
lands,  and  cruises  about  Point-no-point.  People 
who  live  along  the  river  insist  that  they  sometimes 
see  her  in  summer  moonlight ;  and  that  in  a  deep, 
still  midnight,  they  have  heard  the  chant  of  her 
crew,  as  if  heaving  the  lead ;  but  sights  and  sounds 
are  so  deceptive  along  the  mountainous  shores,  and 
about  the  wide  bays  and  long  readies  of  tliis  great 
river,  tliat  I  confess  I  have  very  strong  doubts  upon 
the  subject. 

It  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  strange  things 
have  been  seen  in  these  Highlands  in  storms, 
which  are  considered  as  connected  with  the  old 
story  of  the  sliip.  The  captains  of  the  river  craft 
talk  of  a  little  bulbous-bottomed  Dutch  goblin,  in 
trunk  hose  and  sugar-loafed  hat,  with  a  speaking- 
trumpet  in  his  hand ;  which  tliey  say  keeps  about 
the  Dunderberg  Mountain.  They  declare  that 
they  have  heard  him,  in  stormy  weather,  in  the 
midst  of  the  turmoil,  giving  orders  in  Low  Dutch 
for  the  piping  up  of  a  fresh  gust  of  wind,  or  the 
rattling  off  of  another  thunder-clap.  That  some- 
times he  has  been  seen  surrounded  by  a  crew  of 
little  imps  in  broad  breeches  and  short  doublets, 
tumbling  head  over  heels  in  the  rack  and  mist, 
and  playing  a  thousand  gambols  in  the  air  ;  or 
buzzing  like  a  swarm  of  flies,  about  Antony's 
Nose  ;  and  that,  at  such  time,  the  hurry-scurry  of 
the  storm  was  always  greatest.  One  time  a  sloop, 
in  passing  by  Dunderberg,  was  overtaken  by  a 
thunder-gust  that  came  scouring  down  from  the 
mountain,  and  seemed  to  burst  just  over  the  ves- 
sel.    Though  tight  and  well-ballasted,  yet  she  la- 


BOOK   OF   PROSr.  271 

bourcd  dreadfully,  and  rocked  until  the  water  came 
over  the  g;unwale.  All  the  i^rew  wtn-  amazed; 
when  it  was  discovered  that  there  was  a  little 
white  sugar-loaf  hat  on  the  mast-head  ;  which  was 
known  at  once  for  the  hat  of  the  Heer  of  the  Dun- 
derberg.  Nobody,  however,  dared  to  climb  to  the 
mast-head  and  get  rid  of  this  terrible  hat.  The 
sloop  continued  labouringr  and  rocking  as  if  she 
would  have  rolled  her  mast  overboard.  She  seem- 
ed  in  continual  danger  either  of  upsetting  or  of 
running  on  shore.  In  this  way  she  drove  quite 
through  the  Highlands,  until  she  had  passed  Pol- 
lopcl's  Island ;  where,  it  is  said,  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  Dunderbcrg  potentate  ceases.  No  sooner 
had  she  passed  this  bourne,  than  the  little  hat  all 
at  once  spun  up  into  the  air  like  a  top;  whirled  up 
all  the  clouds  into  a  vortex  ;  and  hurried  them  back 
to  the  summit  of  the  Dunderbcrg  ;  while  the  sloop 
righted  herself,  and  sailed  on  as  quietly  as  if  in  a 
mill-pond.  Nothing  saved  her  from  utter  wreck 
but  the  fortunate  circumstance  of  having  a  horse- 
shoe nailed  against  the  mast ;  a  wise  precaution 
against  evil  spirits,  which  has  since  been  adopted 
by  all  the  Dutch  captains  that  navigate  this  liaunt- 
ed  river. 

W.  Irving. 


THE  SETTLEMENT  OF  NEW-ENGLAND. 

The  settlement  of  New-England,  by  the  colony 
which  landed  here  on  the  twenty-second  of  Decem- 
ber, sixteen  hundred  aiid  twenty,  although  not  tho 
first  European  establishment  in  what  now  consti- 
tutes the  United  States,  was  yet  so  pi^culiar  in  its 
causes  and  character,  and  has  been  followed,  and 


272  YOUNG  lady's 

must  still  be  followed,  by  such  consequences,  as  to 
give  it  a  high  claim  to  lasting  commemoration. 

On  these  causes  and  consequences,  more  than  on 
its  immediately  attend:int  circumstances,  its  im- 
portance, as  an  historical  event,  depends.  Great 
actions  and  striking  occurrences,  liaving  excited  a 
temporary  admiration,  often  pass  away  and  are 
forgotten,  because  they  leave  no  lasting  results, 
affecting  the  prosperity  of  communities.  Such  is 
frequently  the  fortune  of  the  most  brilliant  military 
achievements. 

Of  the  ten  thousand  battles  which  have  been 
fouglit ;  of  all  !he  fields  fertilized  with  carnage ;  of 
the  banners  which  have  been  bathed  in  blood ;  of 
the  warriors  who  have  hoped  that  they  had  risen 
from  the  field  of  conquest  to  a  glory  as  bright  and 
as  durable  as  the  stars,  how  few  that  continue  long 
to  interest  mankind !  The  victory  of  yesterday  is. 
reversed  by  the  defeat  of  to-day  ;  the  star  of  mili- 
tary glory,  rising  like  a  meteor,  like  a  meteor  has 
fallen ;  disgrace  and  disaster  hang  on  the  heels  of 
conquest  and  renown ;  victor  and  vanquislied  pre- 
sently pass  away  to  oblivion,  and  the  world  holdj 
on  its  course,  with  the  loss  only  of  so  many  lives, 
and  so  much  treasure. 

But  if  this  is  frequently,  or  generally,  the  fortune 
of  military  achievements,  it  is  not  always  so.  There 
are  enterprises,  military  as  well  as  civil,  that  some- 
times check  the  current  of  events,  give  a  new  turn 
to  human  affairs,  and  transmit  tlicir  consequences 
through  ages.  We  sec  their  importance  in  their 
results,  and  call  them  great,  because  great  things 
follow. 

There  have  been  battles  which  have  fixed  the 
fate  of  nationa.  I'hcsc  come  down  to  us  in  history 
with  a  solid  and  permanent  influence,  not  created 
fay  a  display  of  glittering  armour,  the  rush  of  ad- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  273 

verse  battalions,  tlic  sinking  and  rising  of  jK^nnoiis 
the  flight,  the  pursuit,  and  tlic  victory  ;  hut  hy  their 
ctfcct  in  advancing  or  retarding  hmnan  knowledge, 
in  overthrowing  or  estahlishing  despotism,  in  ex- 
tendnig  or  destroying  human  iiappiness. 

When  the  traveller  pauses  on  the  plains  of  Mar- 
athon, what  arc  the  emotions  which  strongly  agi- 
tatc  his  breast  ?  What  is  that  glorious  recollection 
that  thrills  through  his  frame,  and  suffuses  his 
eyes  ?  Not,  I  imagine,  that  Grecian  skill  and  Gre- 
cian valour  were  lierc  most  signally  displayed  ;  but 
that  Greece  herself  was  saved. 

It  is  because  to  this  spot,  and  to  tlic  event  which 
lias  rendered  it  immortal,  he  refers  all  the  succeed- 
ing glories  of  the  republic.  It  is  because,  if  that 
day  had  gone  otherwise,  Greece  had  perished.  It 
is  because  he  perceives  that  her  philosophers  and 
orators,  her  poets  and  painters,  her  sculptors  and 
architects,  her  government  and  free  institutions, 
[loint  backward  to  Marathon ;  and  that  their  future 
existence  seems  to  have  been  suspended  on  the  con- 
tingency, w^hether  the  Persian  or  Grecian  banner 
should  wave  victorious  in  the  beams  of  that  day's 
^citing  sun. 

And,  as  his  imagination  kindles  at  the  retrospect, 
..c  is  transported  back  to  the  interesting  moment; 
ho  counts  the  fearful  odds  of  the  contending  hosUi ; 
liis  interest  for  the  result  overwhelms  him ;  lie 
trembles  as  if  it  were  still  uncertain,  and  seems  to 
doubt  whether  he  may  consider  Socrates  and  Plato, 
Demosthenes,  Sophocles,  and  Phidias,  as  secure, 
yet,  to  himself  and  to  the  world. 

"  If  we  conquer," — said  the  Athenian  command- 
or  on  the  morning  of  that  decisive  day, — "  if  we 
conquer,  we  shall  make  Athens  the  greatest  city 
of  Greece."     A  prophecy  how  well  fulfilled  I 
18 


'21 A  YOUNG    I^VDy's 

"  If  CfOii  prosper  us," — mij^ht  have  been  the 
more  appropriate  language  of  our  fathers,  when 
they  landed  upon  this  rock, — "  If  God  prosper  us, 
wc  shall  here  begin  a  work  tliat  shall  last  for  ages; 
we  shall  plant  here  a  new  society,  in  the  principles 
of  the  fullest  liberty,  and  the  purest  religion ;  wc 
shall  subdue  tliis  wilderness  which  is  before  us  ; 
we  shall  fill  this  region  of  the  great  coiitinent, 
which  stretches  almost  from  pole  to  pole,  with 
civilization  and  Christianity  ;  tlie  temples  of  the 
true  God  shall  rise  where  now  ascends  the  smoko 
of  idolatrous  sacrifice ;  fields  and  gardens,  the 
flowers  of  summer,  and  the  waving  and  golden 
harvests  of  autumn,  shall  extend  over  a  thousand 
hills,  and  stretch  along  a  thousand  valleys,  never 
yet,  since  the  creation,  reclaimed  to  the  use  of  civil- 
ized man. 

"  Wc  shall  whiten  this  coast  with  the  canvas  of 
a  prosperous  commerce ;  we  shall  stud  the  long 
and  winding  shore  with  a  hundred  cities.  That 
which  we  sow  in  weakness  shall  be  raised  in 
strength. 

"  From  our  sincere,  but  houseless  worship,  there 
shall  spring  splendid  temples  to  record  God's  good- 
ness ;  from  the  simplicity  of  our  social  union,  there 
shall  arise  wise  and  politic  constitutions  of  govern- 
ment, full  of  the  liberty  which  we  ourselves  bring 
cud  breathe;  from  our  zeal  for  learning,  institutions 
shall  spring,  which  shall  scatter  the  light  of  know- 
ledge throughout  the  land,  and,  in  time,  paying  back 
what  they  liave  borrowed,  shall  contribute  their 
part  to  the  great  aggregate  of  human  knowledge ; 
and  our  descendants,  through  all  generations,  shall 
look  back  to  this  spot,  and  this  hour  with  unabated 
affection  and  regard." 

Webster. 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  ti  1 5 

COLLOaUIAL  POWERS  OF  DR.  FRANK M\. 

Nevkr  have  I  known  sucli  a  fireside  eompaiiion 
as  he  was.  Great  as  lie  was,  both  as  u  stalesniaii 
and  a  pliilosophcr,  he  never  shone  in  a  hirht  more 
winning  tlian  when  lie  was  seen  in  a  doniestie  cir- 
cle. It  was  once  my  good  fortune  to  pass  two  or 
three  weeks  with  him,  at  the  house  of  a  private 
gentleman,  in  the  back  part  of  Pennsylvania ;  and 
we  w'C^c  confined  to  the  house  during  the  whole 
of  that  time,  by  the  unintermitting  constancy  and 
depth  of  the  snows. 

But  confinement  could  never  be  felt  where  Frank, 
lin  was  an  inmate.  His  cheerfulness  and  his  col- 
loquial powers  spread  around  him  a  ])erpetual 
spring.  When  I  speak,  however,  of  his  colloquial 
'i  powers,  I  do  not  mean  to  awaken  any  notion  ana- 
^  j  logons  to  that  which  Boswell  has  given  us,  when 
t;'  he  so  frequently  mentions  the  colloquial  powers  of 
n  Dr.  Johnson.  The  conversation  of  the  latter  con- 
'  K  tinually  reminds  one  of  "  the  pomp  and  circum- 

\\  stance  of  glorious  war." 
Ml  It  was,  indeed,  a  perpetual  contest  for  victory, 
li'  1  or  an  arbitrary  and  despotic  exaction  of  homage 
K  I  to  his  superior  talents.  It  was  strong,  acute,  prompt, 
ill- !  I  splendid,  and  vociferous;  as  loud,  stormy,  and  sub- 
K  A  lime,  as  those  winds  which  he  represents  as  shaking 
oiiS||i|the  Hebrides,  and  rocking  the  old  castles  that 
o^ji  I  frowned  upon  the  dark,  rolling  sea  beneath.  But 
Bti ;  I  tne  gets  tired  of  storms,  however  sublime  they  may 
fell  I  )e,  and  longs  for  the  more  orderly  current  of  iia- 
ilgslf  1  ure. 

shall  1 1    Of  Franklin  no  one  ever  became  tired.     There 

iWUiras  no  ambition  of  eloquence,  no  effort  to  shine. 

ill  any  thing  which  came  from  him.     There  wis 

TE5-  11  othing  which  made  any  demand  cither  upon  your 

il 


276  YOUNG  lady's 

allegiance  or  your  admiration.  His  manner  was 
as  unaffected  as  infancy.  It  was  nature's  self.  He 
talked  like  an  old  patriarch ;  and  iiis  plainness  and 
simplicity  put  you,  at  once,  at  your  ease,  and  gave 
you  the  full  and  free  possession  and  use  of  all  your 
faculties. 

His  thouglits  were  of  a  cliaracter  to  shine  by 
their  own  ligijt,  without  any  adventitious  aid. 
They  required  only  a  medium  of  vision,  like  his 
pure  and  simple  style,  to  exhibit,  to  the  higliest 
advantage,  their  native  radiance  and  beauty.  His 
cheerfulness  was  unremitting.  It  seemed  to  be  as 
much  the  effect  of  the  systematic  and  salutary  ex- 
crcise  of  the  mind,  as  of  its  superior  organization. 

His  wit  was  of  tlie  first  order.  It  did  not  show 
itself  merely  in  occasional  coruscations ;  but,  with- 
out any  etibrt  or  force  on  his  part,  it  shed  a  con- 
stant  stream  of  the  purest  light  over  the  whole  of 
his  discourse.  Whether  in  the  company  of  com- 
nions  or  nobles,  he  was  always  the  same  plain 
man  ;  always  most  perfectly  at  liis  ease,  his  facul- 
ties in  full  play,  and.the  full  orbit  of  his  genius  for 
ever  clear  and  unclouded. 

And,  then,  the  stores  of  his  mind  were  inexhaust- 
ible. He  had  commenced  life  with  an  attention  so 
vigilant,  that  nothing  had  escaped  his  observation, 
and  a  judgment  so  solid,  that  every  incident  was 
turned  to  advantage.  His  youth  had  not  been 
wasted  in  idleness,  nor  overcast  by  intemperance. 
He  had  been  all  his  life  a  close  and  deep  reader, 
as  well  as  thinker ;  and,  by  the  force  of  his  own 
powers,  liad  wrouglit  up  the  raw  materials,  which 
lie  had  gathered  from  books,  witli  such  exquisite 
skill  and  felicity,  that  he  had  added  a  hundred  fold 
to  their  original  value,  and  justly  made  them  his 
own.  Wirt. 


HOOK    OF    PROSE.  277 

CLIMATE  AND  SCENERY  OF  NEW-ENGLAND. 

The  position  of  our  continent,  and  the  course  of 
the  winds,  will  iihvays  give  us  an  unc(iual  climate, 
and  one  abounding  in  contrasts.  In  tlic  lalitiuic 
of  50  dog.,  on  the  north-west  coast  of  America,  the 
weather  is  milder  even  than  in  the  same  parallel 
in  Europe; — the  wind,  three-quarters  of  the  year, 
comes  off  the  Pacific  :  in  the  same  latitude  on  the 
eastern  side,  the  country  is  hardly  worth  inhabit- 
ing, under  the  dreary  length  of  cold,  produced  by 
the  succession  of  winds  across  a  irozen  continent. 
The  wind,  and  the  sun,  too,  often  carry  on  tlie  con- 
test here,  which  they  exerted  on  the  poor  traycllcr 
in  the  fable;  and  we  are  in  doubt  to  wxiicli  we 
shall  yield. 

The  changes  that  cultivation  and  planetary  in- 
fluence, if  there  be  such  a  thing,  can  create,  arc 
very  gradual.  It  seems  to  be  a  general  opinion, 
that  the  cold  is  more  broken  now.  The  totals  of 
heat  and  cold  may  be  nearly  the  same  as  tluy 
were  fifty  years  ago.  The  winters,  particularly, 
have  conuuenced  later.  The  autumn  is  warmer, 
and  the  spring  colder.  We  arc  still  subject  to  the 
same  caprices :  a  flight  of  snow  in  IMay,  a  frost  in 
June,  and  sometimes  in  every  month  in  the  year ; 
and  ^olus  indulges  his  servants  in  stranger  freaks 
and  extravagances  here  than  elsewhere ;  yet  the 
severe  cold  seldom  sets  in  before  January ;  the 
snow  is  less  and  later,  and,  on  the  sea-coast,  dots 
not,  on  an  average,  afford  more  than  a  montli's 
sleighing. 

These  contrasts  in  our  climate  occasion  8oinc 
very  picturesque  effects, — some  that  would  be  con- 
sidered phenomena  by  persons  unaccustomed  to 
them.     It  blends  together  tJie  circumstances  of 


278  YOr-NO    LADV'S 

very  distant  rcg-ions  in  Europe.  Thus,  when  the 
earth  lies  buried  in  a  deep  covering'  of  snow,  in 
Europe,  the  clinio  is  so  far  to  the  north,  that  the 
sun  rises  bat  little  above  the  horizon,  and  his  daily 
visit  is  a  very  short  one  ; — liis  feeble  rays  hardly 
illumine  a  chilly  sky,  tljat  harmonizes  with  the 
dreary  waste  it  covers  :  but  iiere,  the  same  surface 
reflects  a  dazzling  brilliancy  from  rays  that  strike 
at  the  same  angle  at  which  they  do  the  dome  of 
St.  Peter's. 

The  plains  of  Siberia  and  the  Campagna  di  Roma 
are  here  combined  ; — we  have  the  snow  of  the  one 
and  the  sun  of  the  other  at  the  same  period.  While 
his  rays,  in  the  month  of  March,  are  expanding  the 
flowers  and  blossoms  at  Albano  and  Tivoli,  they 
ore  here  falling  on  a  wide,  uninterrupted  covering 
of  snow, — producing  a  dazzling  brilliancy  that  is 
almost  insupportable.  A  moonlight  at  this  season 
is  equally  remarkable,  and  its  effects  can  be  more 
easily  endured. 

Our  moon  is  nearly  the  same  with  that  moon 
of  Naples,  which  Carracioli  told  the  king  of  Eng- 
land was  "  superior  to  his  majesty's  sun."  When 
this  surface  of  spotless  snow  is  shone  upon  by  this 
moon  at  its  full,  and  reflects  back  its  beams,  the 
light,  indeed,  is  not  that  of  day,  but  it  takes  away 
all  appearance  of  night ; — the  witch  and  the  spec- 
tre would  shrink  from  its  exposure  : 

"  It  is  not  night ; — 't  is  but  the  daylight  sick ; 
It  looks  a  little  paler." 

On  the  sea-coast,  the  winters  are  milder;  but 
the  obnoxious  cast  winds  are  more  severely  felt,  in 
the  spring,  than  they  are  in  the  interior.  The 
whole  coast  of  Massachusetts  Bay  is  remarkably 
exposed  to  their  influence.     Some  compensation, 


BOOK    OF    TROSK,  279 

however,  is  derived,  for  tlicir  liarslinrss  and  viru- 
lence in  the  spring,  by  their  refreshing  and  salu- 
tary breezes  in  the  sunnncr,  wheTi  they  frequently 
allay  the  sultry  heat,  and  prevent  it  from  becoming 
oppressive. 

Althougli  a  district  favourably  situated  will  enjoy 
an  average  of  climate  two  or  three  degrees  better 
thaJi  those  in  its  neighbourhood,  yet,  generally,  the 
progress  of  the  climate  is  pretty  regular  as  you 
ibllow^  the  coast  of  the  United  States  from  north- 
east to  south-west.  I  am  induced  to  tiiink,  that 
our  great  rivers  have  some  connexion  witli  the 
gradations  of  climate  ;  that  every  large  river  you 
pass  makes  a  diflcrence  of  two  or  three  degrees  in 
the  averages  of  the  thermometer.  The  position  of 
mountains  will  affect  the  climate  essentially ;  but 
tlie  rivers,  whose  course  upwards  is  nortlw^rly,  will 
still,  in  general,  be  lines  of  dcmarkation. 

One  of  the  most  agreeable  peculiarities  in  our 
climate  is  a  period  in  the  autumn  called  the  Indian 
Summer.  It  happens  in  October,  commencing  a 
few  da3's  earlier  or  later,  as  the  season  may  l)e. 
The  temperature  is  delightful,  and  the  weather 
differing  in  its  character  from  that  of  any  other 
season.  The  air  is  filled  with  a  slight  haze,  like 
smoke,  which  some  suppose  it  to  be  ;  the  wind  is 
south-west,  and  there  is  a  vernal  soilness  in  the 
atmosphere ;  yet  the  different  altitude  of  the  sun 
from  what  it  has  in  the  summer,  makes  it,  in  other 
respects,  very  unlike  that  season. 

This  singular  occurrence  in  our  climate  seems 
to  be  to  summer  what  a  vivid  reeolleefion  of  past 
joys  is  to  the  reality.  The  Indians  have  some 
pleasing  superstitions  respecting  it.  "  They  be- 
lieve it  is  caused  by  a  wind,  which  comes  imme- 
dialelyfroni  tlie  court  of  tlieir  great  and  b<nevt)linl 


280  YOUNG  lady's 

god  Caulantowwit,  or  tlic  south-wcstorn  g-od,  the 
god  tliat  is  superior  to  ull  other  beings,  who  sends 
them  every  blessin<r'  whicli  they  enjoy,  and  to 
whom  tlic  fcouls  of  their  fathers  go  alter  their  de- 
cease." 

In  connexion  with  our  climate,  the  appearance 
of  our  atmospiiere  may  be  considered.  The  lover 
of  picturesque  beauty  will  find  this  a  fruitful  source 
of  it.  The  same  inequalities  will  be  found  here, 
that  take  place  in  the  measure  of  heat  and  cold, 
and  an  equal  number  of  contrasts  and  varieties. 
We  have  many  of  those  days,  when  a  murky  va- 
pourishness  is  diffused  through  the  air,  dimming 
the  lustre  of  the  sun,  and  producing  just  such  tones 
of  light  and  colour  as  would  be  marked,  in  the 
calendar  of  Newfoundland  or  the  Hebrides,  for  a 
bright,  fair  day.  We  have,  again,  others,  in  which 
even  the  transparency  and  purity  of  the  tropics, 
and  all  the  glowing,  mellow  hues  of  Greece  and 
Naples,  are  blended  together,  to  shed  a  hue  of  para- 
dise on  every  object. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  intense  brilliancy 
of  a  winter  moonlight,  when  the  air  lias  a  polar 
temperature;  tlie  same  brilliancy  and  a  greater 
clearness  are  often  found  in  the  month  of  June, 
and  sometimes  in  July,  with  the  warmth  of  the 
equator.  There,  are,  occasionally,  in  the  summer 
and  autumn,  such  magical  effects  of  light,  such  a 
universal  tone  of  colouring,  that  the  very  air  seems 
tinged ;  and  an  aspect  of  such  harmonious  splen- 
dour is  thrown  over  every  object,  that  the  attention 
of  the  most  indifferent  is  awakened,  and  the  lovers 
of  the  beautiful  in  nature  enjoy  the  most  lively  de- 
light. 

These  are  the  kinds  of  tints  which  even  the 
matchless  pencil  of  Claude  vainly  endeavoured  to 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  281 

imitate.  They  occur  a  few  limes  every  year,  a 
little  before  suiiiset,  under  a  particuhir  slate  of  tlic 
air  and  position  of  the  clouds.  These  beautiful 
appearances  are  not  so  frequent,  indeed,  here,  as 
llicy  are  at  Naples :  all  those  warm  colours,  which 
we  sec  in  Neapolitan  pictures,  occur  tliere  more 
often ;  but  I  have  frequently  seen  the  hills  on  the 
south  of  Boston  exhibiting^,  towards  sunset,  tlie 
same  exquisite  hues,  which  Vesuvius  more  fre- 
quently presents,  and  which  the  Neapolitans,  in 
their  paintings  of  it,  always  adopt. 

The  vivid  beauty,  whicii  I  now  speak  of,  is  rare 
and  transient ;  but  we  may  often  enjoy  the  charms 
of  a  transparent  atmosphere,  where  objects  stand 
in  bold  reliei',  and  even  distant  ones  will  present  all 
their  hues  and  angles,  clear  and  sharp,  from  Uie 
deep  distant  sky,  as  on  the  shores  of  Greece  ;  and 
we  gaze  at  sunset  on  gorgeous  skies,  where  all  tlic 
magnificence  that  form  and  colour  can  devise,  is 
accumulated  to  enrapture  the  eye,  and  render  de 
scription  hopeless. 

The  scenery  of  this  country  will  have  struck 
you,  at  once,  as  very  different  from  that  of  Europe. 
This  difference  is  partly  intrinsic,  and  partly  acci- 
dental,— arising  out  of  the  kind  and  degrees  of 
cultivation.  Tiie  most  obvious  and  extensive  view 
in  which  it  differs,  is  the  redundancy  of  forest.  A 
vast  Ibrcst,  to  a  person  who  had  never  seen  one, 
would  excite  almost  as  strong  sensations  as  tiif 
sight  of  the  ocean  to  Jiim  who  beheld  it  l()r  the  lirst 
time ;  and  in  both  cases  a  long  continuance  of  the 
prospect  becomes  tiresome. 

From  some  of  our  hills,  tlie  spectator  looks  over 
an  expanse  of  woods  bounded  by  tlie  huri/on,  and 
slightly  checkered  by  cultivation.  Tlie  view  is  grand 
and  imposing  at  first,  but  will  be  more  agreeable, 


282  YOUNG  lady's 

and  afford  more  lasting  pleasure,  when  the  relative 
proportions  of  wood  and  open  ground  are  reversed. 
The  most  cultivated  parts  of  these  states  approach 
nearest  to  some  of  the  most  covered  in  England, 
that  are  not  an  actual  forest.  We  have  nothing 
like  the  downs  on  your  southern  coast ;  and,  fa- 
tiguing  as  an  eternal  forest  may  be,  it  is  less  so 
than  those  dreary  wastes,  as  destitute  of  objects  as 
the  mountain  swell  of  the  ocean. 

We  have  still  so  much  wood,  that,  even  in  the 
oldest  cultivated  parts  of  the  country,  it  is  difficult 
to  find  a  panoramic  view  of  any  extent,  where  some 
patches  of  the  native  forest  are  not  to  be  found.  I 
know  of  but  one  exception,  which  is  from  the  stee- 
ple of  the  church  in  Ipswich,  in  Essex,  Massachu- 
setts.  This  is  one  of  tlie  oldest  towns ;  the  pros- 
pect will  put  an  Englishman  in  mind  of  the  scenery 
of  his  own  country.  I  need  not  add,  that  it  is  a 
very  pleasing  one,  and  will  repay  him  for  the  slight 
trouble  of  ascending  the  steeple. 

The  trees,  though  there  are  too  many  of  them, 
at  least  in  masses,  must  please  the  eye  of  a  Euro- 
pean, from  their  variety  and  beauty,  as  well  as 
novelty.  The  richness  of  our  trees  and  shrubs  has 
always  excited  the  admiration  of  botanists  and  the 
lovers  of  landscape  gardening.  There  can  be  no- 
thing nobler  than  the  appearance  of  some  of  tho 
oaks  and  beeches  in  England,  and  the  walnuts  and 
chestnuts  in  France  and  Italy.  The  vast  size  of 
these  spreading  trees  is  only  surpassed  by  some  of 
our  sycamores  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio. 

Our  oaks  may  sometimes  be  seen  of  the  same 
size ;  and  the  towering  white  pine  and  hemlock 
reach  a  height  that  I  have  never  seen  attained  by 
trees  in  Europe  ;  but,  for  grandeur  of  appearance, 
we  must  rely,  in  the  first  instance,  on  the  Ameri- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  283 

can  elm,  that  lias  been  planted  for  ornaniont.  Itn 
colour,  its  form,  and  its  size,  ])lace  it  much  before 
the  European  elm ;  it  is  one  of  our  most  majestic 
trees.  There  are  many  varieties  of  it  very  distinct, 
yet  not  so  numerous  as  of  the  oaks,  walnuts,  and 
some  others. 

Of  the  former,  you  know,  we  have  between 
thirty  and  forty  different  species,  and  a  jjreat  num- 
ber of  species  exist  of  all  our  principal  trees.  This 
variety,  in  the  hands  of  taste,  would  be  made  [)ro- 
ductive  of  the  highest  eflccts  in  ornamental  plant. 
ing,  of  which  there  are  more  specimens  in  England 
than  in  this  country,  though  only  a  part  of  our 
riches  in  this  way  have  been  transplanted  by  tlieir 
gardeners. 

You  will  remark  the  fresh  and  healthy  look  of 
our  forest,  as  well  as  fruit  trees,  compared  with 
tliose  of  all  tlie  northern  parts  of  Europe.  The  hu- 
midity of  that  atmosphere  nourishes  the  mosses, 
and  a  green  coating  over  the  trunks  and  branches, 
Lliat  give  the  aspect  of  disease  and  decay.  You 
will  often  observe  the  clean  and  smooth  bark  of 
our  trees  of  all  kinds:  among  the  forest  trees,  par- 
ticularly, the  walnut,  maple,  beech,  &c.,  will  \)C 
entirely  free  from  moss  or  rust  of  any  kind;  and 
their  trunks  form  fine  contrasts  with  the  leaves. 

I  will  mention  a  peculiarity,  which  you  will 
witness  in  autumn,  that  will  affect  a  lover  of  land. 
ficajX!  scenery,  like  yourself,  on  seeing  it  the  first 
time,  with  surprise  as  well  as  delight.  The  rich 
and  mellow  tints  of  the  forest,  at  that  season  of  the 
year,  have  often  furnished  sulycets  I'or  the  ptn-t  and 
the  painter  in  Europe;  but  it  will  hardly  prepare 
you  for  the  sight  our  woods  exhibit.  1  have  never 
seen  a  representation  of  them  attempted  in  paint- 
U)g ;  it  would  probably  be  grotesque. 


284  YouNo  lady's 

Besides  all  the  shades  of  brown  and  green, 
which  you  have  in  European  trees,  there  arc  tlie 
most  brilliant  and  glaring  colours, — bright  yellow, 
and  scarlet,  for  instance, — not  merely  on  single 
leaves,  but  in  masses  of  whole  trees,  with  all  tiieir 
foliage  thus  tinged.  I  do  not  know  that  it  has 
ever  been  accounted  for;  it  may,  pcrliaps,  be 
owing  to  the  frosts  coming  earlier  here  than  in 
Europe,  and  falling  on  the  leaves  while  the  sap  is 
yet  copious,  before  they  have  begun  to  dry  up  and 
fall  off.  However  this  may  be,  the  colouring  is 
wonderful ;  the  walnut  is  turned  to  the  brightest 
yellow,  the  maple  to  scarlet,  &c.  Our  trees  put  on 
this  harlequin  dress  about  the  first  of  October. 

I  leave  to  your  imagination,  which  can  never 
reach  the  reality,  to  fancy  the  api)earance  of  such 
scenes  as  you  may  behold  at  tlys  season.  A  cloud- 
less  sky,  and  transparent  atmosphere,  a  clear  blue 
lake,  with  meadows  of  light,  delicate  green,  backed 
by  hills  and  dales  of  those  party-colbured,  gorgeous 
forests,  are  often  combined,  to  form  tlie  most  en- 
chanting  views. 

Tudor. 


ON  THE  PICTURESaUE. 

The  arts  are  no  less  unfortunate  than  the  sci 
ences,  in  being  retarded  by  the  vagueness  and 
laxity  of  their  technical  terms.  In  various  branches 
of  philosophy,  a  single  word  has  imposed  on  the 
notions  of  an  age,  or  constituted  the  distinctive 
badge  of  a  school.  It  has  paralyzed  investigation, 
and  held  the  minds  of  men  as  in  a  spell ;  and, 
even  in  more  modern  and  in  the  present  times,  an 
observer  will  frequently  be  struck  with  the  extend 


BOOK    OF    PUOSE.  385 

ed  and  unhappy  inflnrnco  of  soino  cnnvrnlionnl 
words  and  phrases,  to  wliich  the  fxaiii|)l(;  of  nn 
individual  or  loii;:^  hat)ituation  has  nttacht  d  a  linti- 
tious  importance.  Nor,  as  wc  have  said,  are  the 
arts  exempted  from  a  like  disadvantii^fe,  J)itlerfnt 
meanings  are  sometimes  attached  to  the  same 
terms;  and,  wlicre  this  is  not  the  case,  there  is  an 
indetenninatencss  in  their  apj)heati()n,  which  is  at 
once  the  source  of  much  contusion  and  much  con- 
troversy. Of  tiiis  class  may  be  sijccitied  such 
words  as  sublime,  beautiful,  picturesque,  &c.,  tiie 
precise  meaning  of  which,  it  would  seem,  can 
only  be  fixed  by  a  reference  to  some  acknowledged 
standard,  of  which  we  seem  to  be  in  want.  Some 
authors,  however,  have  laid  down,  hotli  by  dciini- 
tion  and  illustration,  their  views  of  l!i(>  just  appli- 
cation  of  these  terms,  and  we  propose  to  lay  them 
before  our  readers  in  a  selection  from  their  writing?. 
The  distinction  between  sublime  and  beautiful 
objects  is  thus  generally  stated  in  Mr.  Ihirke's 
treatise  on  that  subject: — "Sublime  objects,"  says 
he,  "are  vast  in  their  dimensions ,  beautiful  ones 
comparatively  small :  beauty  should  be  smof.th 
and  polished ;  the  great,  rugged  and  negligent : 
beauty  should  shun  the  rigiit  line,  yet  deviate  from 
it  insensibly  ;  the  great,  in  many  cases,  Ir.ves  the 
right  line;  and  when  it  deviates,  it  ollen  makes  a 
strong  deviation :  beauty  should  not  be  obse\ire ; 
the  great  ought  to  be  dark  and  gloomy  :  bea«ity 
should  be  light  and  delicate ;  the  great  ought  to  be 
solid,  and  even  massive.  They  are,  indeed,  ideas 
of  a  very  different  nature,  one  Ixing  founded  on 
pain,  tlie  other  on  pleasure ;  and  however  they 
might  vary  atlcrwards  from  the  direct  nature  of 
their  causes,  yet  these  causes  keej)  up  nn  eternal 
distinction,  never  to  be  forgotten  l)y   any   whoso 


286  YOUNG  lady's 

business  it  is  to  affect  the  passions,"  The  distinc* 
tion  between  the  picturesque  and  the  beautiful  is 
stated  in  the  same  general  manner,  though  with 
much  interesting  illustration,  by  Mr.  Uredale 
Price,  in  his  Essay  on  the  Picturesque.  "  A  tern, 
pie  or  palace  of  Grecian  architecture,  in  its  perfect 
and  entire  state,  and  its  surface  and  colour  smooth 
and  even,  either  in  painting  or  reality,  is  beautiful; 
in  ruin,  it  is  picturesque.  Observe  the  process  by 
which  time  (the  great  author  of  such  changes) 
converts  a  beautiful  object  into  a  picturesque  ona 
First,  by  means  of  weather-stains,  partial  incrus. 
tations,  mosses,  Sec. ;  it  at  the  same  time  takes  off 
from  the  uniformity  of  its  surface  and  its  colour ; 
that  is,  gives  it  a  degree  of  roughness  and  variety 
of  tint.  Next,  the  various  accidents  of  weather 
loosen  the  stones  themselves ;  they  tumble  in  irreg- 
ular  masses  upon  what  was  perhaps  smooth  turf  or 
pavement,  or  nicely-trimmed  walks  and  shrub- 
beries,  now  mixed  and  overgrown  with  wild  plants 
and  creepers,  that  crawl  over  and  shoot  among  the 
fallen  ruins.  Sedums,  wall-flowers,  and  other  vege- 
tables that  bear  drought,  find  nourishment  in  the 
decayed  cement,  from  which  the  stones  have  been 
detached ;  birds  convey  their  food  into  the  chinks ; 
and  yew,  elder,  and  other  berried  plants,  project 
from  the  sides ;  while  the  ivy  mantles  over  other 
parts,  and  crowns  the  top.  The  even,  regular 
lines  of  the  doors  and  windows  are  broken,  and 
through  their  ivy-fringed  openings  is  displayed  the 
ruined  interior  of  the  edifice.  In  Gothic  buildings, 
the  outline  of  tlie  summit  presents  such  a  variety 
of  fffms  r.f  turrets  and  pinnacles,  some  open, 
seme  fretted  and  variously  enriched,  that,  even 
where  there  is  an  exact  correspondence  of  parts, 
it  is  often  disguised  by  an  appearance  of  splendid 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  287 

confusion  and  irrojjularity.  In  the  doors  and  win- 
dows of  Gothic  cliurclies,  the  pciinli'd  ar(;li  lias  as 
niucli  variety  as  any  rcjruhir  fi^rurc  can  well  have: 
Uie  eye  is  not  too  stronpfly  conducted  iVom  tlie  lop 
of  the  one  to  tiiat  of  tlie  other,  as  l)y  the  parallel 
lines  of  the  Grecian ;  and  every  person  nuist  be 
t^truck  with  the  extreme  richness  and  uilricaey  of 
some  of  the  principal  windows  of  our  cathedrals 
and  ruined  abbeys.  In  these  last  is  ciisplayt d  the 
triumph  of  the  picturesque ;  and  its  charms  to  a 
painter's  eye  are  often  so  great  as  to  rival  those  of 
i>cauty  itself.  So  in  mills,  such  is  the  extrenie  in. 
tricacy  of  the  wheels  and  the  wood-work ;  such  is 
the  singular  variety  of  forms,  and  of  lights  and 
shadows,  of  mosses  and  wcather-stams  from  the 
constant  moisture — of  plants  springing  from  tho 
rough  joints  of  the  stones  ;  such  the  assemblage 
of  every  thing  which  most  conduces  to  pic- 
turcsqueness,  that,  even  without  the  addition  of 
water,  an  old  mill  has  the  greatest  charm  for  a 
painter.  It  is  owing  to  the  same  causes,  that  a 
building  with  scaffolding  has  ol'ten  a  more  pic 
turesque  appearance  than  the  iiuilding  itst  11"  when 
the  scaffolding  is  taken  away — that  old,  mossy, 
rough-hevv'n  park  pales  of  uncciual  heights  arc  an 
ornament  to  landscapes,  especially  when  they  aro 
j)artially  concealed  by  thickets;  while  a  neat  jkjsI 
and  rail,  regularly  continued  round  a  field,  and 
seen  without  any  interruption,  is  one  of  the  most 
unpicturcsque,  as  being  one  of  the  most  uinlcjrni, 
of  all  boundaries.  Among  trees,  it  is  not  Uio 
smooth  young  beech,  or  the  fresh  and  lender  ash, 
l)ut  the  rugged  old  oak,  or  knotty  wyeh  ehn,  that 
are  picturesque;  nor  is  it  necessary  that  they 
should  be  of  great  bulk  ;  it  is  suffieii  iit  if  they  are 
ruugh,  mossy,  with  a  character  of  ag<',  and  witii 


288  YOUNG  lady's 

sudden  variations  in  their  forms.  The  limbs  of  huge 
trees,  shattered  by  lightning  or  tempestuous  winds, 
are  in  the  highest  degree  picturesque  ;  but  what- 
ever is  caused  by  those  dreaded  powers  of  destruc- 
tion, must  always  have  a  tincture  of  the  sublime. 

*  As  when  heaven's  fire 
Has  scathed  the  forest  oaks  or  mountain  pines; 
With  singed  top  their  stately  growth,  though  bare. 
Stand  on  the  blasted  heath.' 

"If  we  next  take  a  view  of  those  animals  that 
are  called  picturesque,  the  same  qualities  are  found 
to  prevail.  Tlie  ass  is  eminently  so,  much  more 
than  the  horse ;  and,  among  horses,  it  is  the  wild 
forester,  with  his  rough  coat,  his  mane  and  tail 
ragged  and  uneven,  or  the  worn-out  cart-horse 
with  his  staring  bones.  Among  savage  animals, 
the  lion  with  his  shaggy  mane  is  much  more  pic- 
turesque than  the  lioness,  though  she  is  equally  an 
object  of  terror.  The  effects  of  roughness  and 
smoothness  in  producing  the  beautiful  or  the 
picturesque  is  again  clearly  exemplified  in  the 
plumage  of  birds.  Nothing  more  beautiful  than 
feathers  in  their  smooth  state,  when  the  hand  or 
eye  glides  over  them  without  interruption  ;  nothing 
more  picturesque,  as  detached  ornaments,  or  when 
ruffled  by  any  accidental  circumstance,  by  any 
sudden  passion  in  the  animal,  or  when  they  appear 
so  from  their  natural  arrangement.  As  all  the 
effects  of  passion  and  of  strong  emotion  on  the 
human  figure  and  countenance  are  picturesque, 
such  likewise  are  their  effects  on  the  plumage  of 
birds;  when  inflamed  with  anger,  the  first  symp- 
toms appear  in  their  ruffled  plumage.  The  game- 
cock, when  he  attacks  his  rival,  raises  the  feathers 
of   the  neck,  and  the  purple  pheasant  his  crest, 


DOOK    OF    PROSE.  289 

Birds  of  prey  have  generally  more  of  the  pic- 
turesque, from  the  angular  form  of  tluir  In-aks,  the 
rough  feathers  on  tlir-ir  lejrs,  their  crooked  talons  : 
all  this  covmlerbaliiiices  the  jreneral  smoollmess  of 
the  plumage  on  their  backs  and  wings,  w  Inch  thcv 
have  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  ii<atherrd 
creation.  Lastly,  among  our  own  species,  heggars, 
gypsies,  and  all  such  rough  tattered  figures  as  are 
merely  picturesque,  bear  a  close  analogy,  in  all 
the  qualities  that  make  them  so,  to  old  hovels  ;ind 
mills,  to  the  wild  forest  horse,  and  other  objects  nf 
the  same  kind.  More  dignified  characters,  sin-h 
as  a  Belisarius,  or  a  Marius  in  age  and  exih-,  li.ivc 
the  same  mixture  of  picturesqueness  and  decayi  d 
grandeur  as  the  venerable  remains  of  past  ages. 
If  wc  ascend  to  the  highest  order  of  created  beings, 
as  painted  by  the  grandest  of  our  poets,  they,  in 
their  state  of  glory  and  happiness,  raise  clii*  tlj 
ideas  of  beauty  and  sublimity;  like  earthly  oIk 
jects,  they  become  picturesque  when  ruined — 
when  shadows  have  obscured  their  original  bright- 
ness, and  that  uniform  though  angelic  expression 
of  pure  love  and  joy  has  been  destroyed  by  a  va- 
riety of  warring  passions : — 

" '  Darkened  so,  yet  sliono 
Above  Ihem  all  the  archungel ;  but  liis  faco 
Deep  scars  of  thunilur  had  intrpncht-d,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek  ;  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage  and  considerate  pride 
Waiting  revenge;  cruel  his  eye,  hut  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion.'  " 

My   Daughter's  Book- 
19 


YOUNG    I.ADY  S 


L  I  G  FI  T. 


Look  at  that  glassy  wave,  the  light  of  which 
dazzles  our  eyes  as  if  it  came  from  a  silvered  mir- 
ror ;  where  does  that  light  originate ?  Oh,  you 
will  say,  it  is  only  the  sunbeams.  To  be  sure :  you 
admit,  then,  that  the  light  from  the  wave  does  not 
originate  in  the  wave  itself,  but  that  it  comes  from 
the  sun  ?  Well,  as  it  comes  from  the  sun,  let  me  ask 
wliat  distance  has  it  travelled  ?  How  far  is  the 
earth  from  the  sun?  Ninety-five  millions  one 
hundred  and  seventy-three  thousand  miles.  A 
pretty  long  journey,  you  will  confess ;  but  is 
the  light  tardy  in  accomplishing  it^  No ;  it  travels 
at  the  rate  of  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  miles 
in  a  second,  and  consequently,  arrives  at  tlie  earth 
from  the  sun  in  about  eight  minutes.  Does  it 
travel  farther  than  the  earth  ?  For  what  we  know, 
it  may  travel  on  for  ever,  till  intercepted  by  some 
opaque  or  ponderable  object ;  but  we  know  for  cer- 
tain, that  it  reaches  Herschell,  the  most  distant 
planet  of  our  system,  which  is  no  less  than 
eighteen  hundred  millions  of  miles  from  the  sun. 
Now,  is  light  material  ?  I  have  no  knowledge  of 
it  but  what  is  obtained  through  the  medium  of 
sight :  no  other  sense  recognizes  it ;  we  cannot 
taste  it;  we  cannot  smell  it;  and  it  makes  no  im- 
pression on  the  nerves  of  touch.  But  I  can  learn, 
that  it  is  not  only  compounded  of  three  primary 
coloured  rays,  but  also  of  others  not  connected 
with  colour  at  all ;  of  calorific  and  of  oxidising 
and  deoxidising  rays.  I  can  see,  that  it  is  neces- 
sary to  vegetation ;  that  plants,  deprived  of  its  pre- 
sence, lose  their  green  colour ;  that  it  affects  va- 
rious chemical  decompositions  ;  and  tJiat  it  is  sub- 
jected to  certain  fixed  lav/s,  which  form  the  basis 


DOOK   OF    PROSK,  291 

of  the  science  of  optics.  From  tlicsc  circumstnnces 
I  infer  tliat  it  is  matter,  that  it  is  a  siihstarice ;  hut 
liow  subtle  must  he  the  nature  of  a  siibsUmee  whose 
particles  can  move  in  every  direction  without  in- 
tcrferinsT  with  each  other ;  which  can  travel  about 
ninety-five  millions  of  miles  in  about  ei<][ht  minutes, 
and  yet  not  exert  the  least  perceptible  force  of 
collision  ;  which  will  pass  throuj^h  the  hardest  crys- 
tal, or  tlie  purest  diamond,  with  as  much  ease  as 
through  air  or  water  !  It  is  imponderable,  and  wants 
various  properties  which  philosophers  have  tlioug-lit 
to  be  essential  to  matter ;  but,  in  fact,  we  can  sel- 
dom tell  wiiat  is  essential  to  any  thing.  We  see 
objects  and  light  by  the  eyes  :  that  you  will  admit; 
und  you  will  admit,  also,  tliat,  without  organs  of 
vision,  we  could  have  no  knowledge  of  light  and 
colours.  But  is  it  the  eye  that  sees  ?  Consider 
now.  You  say,  Yes.  I  say,  No.  When  you  take 
up  a  telescope  and  lopk  at  the  moons  of  Jupiter, 
you  see  those  moons,  which,  without  the  telescope, 
you  could  not  see.  But  does  the  telescope  see 
them  ?  You  laugh,  perhaps  ;  you  think  the  ques- 
tion childish.  It  is  not  so.  Suppose  a  card  were 
slipped  in  between  your  eye  and  the  eye-glass, 
you  would  then  neither  perceive  the  planets  nor 
his  satellites.  Now,  the  eye  is  to  vision  what  the 
telescope  is  :  it  is  an  optical  instrument ;  it  serves 
to  form  an  image  ;  but  the  eye  itself  docs  not  see  : 
it  is  tlje  organ  of  communication  with  liglit,  and 
is  necessary  to  vision ;  but  the  sensation  lies  in  the 
brain,  or  rather,  I  shoidd  say,  in  the  mind  which 
inhabits  it.  Cut  off  the  communication  between 
the  eye  and  the  brain,  and  the  same  result  follows 
as  when  a  card  is  placed  between  the  eye  and  tho 
telescope  :  all  is  dark.  The  optic  nerve  is  tlic  cord 
ithrough  which  the  brain  communicates  w  itli  tlio 


292  rouNG  lady's 

eye  and  when,  by  disease  or  other  means,  that 
nerve,  or  its  expansion,  the  retina,  on  which  the 
images  of  external  objects  are  painted,  loses  its 
function,  or  if,  as  has  been  often  proved  by  experi- 
ment,  the  optic  nerves  be  cut  across,  then  the  ani- 
mal sees  no  longer,  though  the  eyes  themselves  re- 
main  as  perfect  as  before. 


WALKING. 

1  HAVE  ever  held  walking  to  be  a  principal  plea- 
sure. It  is  one,  however,  which,  like  health,  is 
usually  enjoyed  with  a  most  thankless  indifference. 
We  hold  it  cheap,  because  it  costs  nothing,  while 
there  are  many  things  we  prize,  merely  because 
we  pay  for  them.  Privation  appears  to  be  a  neces- 
sary process,  to  give  a  man  a  just  sense  of  the 
goods  of  existence.  The  original  gift  is  never 
valued  as  the  restored  boon.  Ask  the  convalescent 
w^hat  they  feel  in  the  renewed  power  6f  locomo- 
tion. Let  such  a  one  look  back,  and  contrast  past 
and  present  feeling  on  the  point.  Did  he  not  once 
go  forth  with  the  free  limb,  the  erect  carriage, 
nerves  braced,  and  spirits  exhilarated ;  and  did  he 
pause  to  say  to  himself,  This  is  pleasure — renova- 
tion to  my  physical  and  mental  constitution — an 
assertion  of  one  of  the  proud  privileges  that  pro- 
claim me  lord  of  the  animal  world  ?  See  him  now 
with  his  slow  step,  and  faint  brow,  looking  up 
with  complacent  gratification  for  the  restored  good, 
though  it  be  in  comparison  to  the  original  good 
what  the  far  echo  is  to  the  original  sound.  I 
knew  a  lady  who  rarely  walked  without  repining 
at  fortune  for  depriving  her  of  a  carriage  ;  but  she 


BOOK   OF   rRO'.;K.  293 

never  thought  of  rejoicing  thut  nature  had  ex- 
empted her  trom  crutelies.  If  walking  were  taxed, 
jiow  would  the  rich  wallc,  and  tlie  poor  envy  thcni 
the  privilege  !  How  would  jx'ople  then  repine  at 
a  restriction,  which  they  now  voluntarily  impose 
upon  themselves  !  What  petitions  would  hv.  pre- 
sented to  Parliament  to  remove  the  duly  Irom  this 
paneeea — this  source  of  health  and  good  spirits, 
this  right  of  humanity,  as  it  would  then  he  con- 
tended tor  !  Thus  it  is  that  the  fruit  for  which  wc 
liave  but  to  put  forth  our  hands,  remains  unj)luck. 
ed,  while  wo  risk  every  thing  for  the  purchased 
enjoyments,  popularly  termed  pleasures. 

Mv  Daughter's  Book. 


NATURAL  SCENERY  FAVOURABLE  TO 
DEVOTION 

Whatever  leads  our  minds  iiabitually  to  the 
Author  of  the  universe ;  whatever  mingles  Uie 
voice  of  nature  with  the  revelation  of  the  Gosfx;!; 
whatever  teaches  us  to  see  in  all  the  changes  of  tlie 
world,  the  varied  goodness  of  Ilim,  in  whom  "wc 
live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being,"  brings  us 
nearer  to  the  spirit  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind. 
But  it  is  not  oiily  as  encotlraging  a  sincere  devo- 
tion, that  these  retleetions  are  favourable  to  Chris- 
tianity ;  there  is  something,  moreover,  peculiarly 
allied  to  its  spirit  in  such  observations  of  external 
nature.  When  our  Saviour  prepared  himself  for 
his  temptation,  his  agony,  and  death,  he  retired  to 
the  wilderness  of  Judca,  to  inhale,  we  may  venture 
to  believe,  a  hoUer  spirit  amidst  its  solitary  scenes, 
and  to  approach  to  a  nearer  eonununion  with  Ida 


^94  YOUNG    lady's 

Father,  amidst  the  sublimest  of  his  works.  It  is 
with  similar  feelings,  and  to  worship  the  same 
Father,  that  the  Christian  is  permitted  to  enter  the 
temple  of  nature  ;  and  by  the  spirit  of  his  religion, 
there  is  a  language  infused  into  the  objects  whicli 
she  presents,  unknown  to  the  worshippers  of  for- 
mer times.  To  all,  indeed,  the  same  objects  appear, 
the  same  sun  shines,  the  same  heavens  are  open ; 
but  to  the  Christian  alone  it  is  j)ermitted  to  know 
the  Author  of  these  things;  to  see  liis  Spirit 
"move  in  the  breeze  and  blossom  in  the  spring;" 
and  to  read  in  the  changes  which  occur  in  the 
material  world,  the  varied  expression  of  eternal 
love.  It  is  from  the  influence  of  Christianity,  ac- 
cordingly, that  the  key  has  been  given  to  the  signn 
of  nature.  It  was  only  when  the  "  Spirit  of  Goci 
moved  on  the  face  of  the  deep,"  that  order  and 
beauty  were  seen  in  the  world.  It  is,  accordingly, 
well  worthy  of  observation,  that  the  beauty  of  nii- 
ture,  as  felt  in  modern  times,  appears  to  have  bee.n 
almost  unknown  to  the  writers  of  antiquity.  They 
described,  occasionally,  the  scenes  in  which  thcy 
dwelt;  but,  if  we  except  Virgil,  whose  gentle  mind 
seems  to  have  anticipated,  in  tliis  instance,  the  in 
fluence  of  the  gospel,  never  with  any  deep  feelings 
of  their  beauty.  Then,  as  now,  the  citadel  of 
Athens  looked  upon  the  evening  sun,  and  her  tem- 
ples flamed  in  his  setting  beam,  but  what  Athenian 
writer  ever  described  the  matchless  glories  of  the 
scene  ?  Then,  as  now,  the  silvery  clouds  of  the 
-^gean  sea  rolled  round  her  verdant  isles,  and 
sported  in  the  azure  vault  of  heaven ;  but  what 
Grecian  poet  has  been  inspired  by  the  sight  ? 
Italian  lakes  spread  their  waves  beneath  a  cloud- 
less sky,  and  all  that  is  lovely  in  nature  was  gather- 
ed around  them,  yet  even  Eustace  tells  us,  that  a 


BOOK    OF    PROSK-  29  fi 

few  detaclicd  lines  is  all  that  is  left  in  regard  to 
them  by  the  Roman  poets.     Tlie  Alps  themselves, 

"The  pnlace3  of  nature,  whoso  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clou.ls  their  snowy  scalps. 
And  throned  eti'rniiy  in  iry  hulls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  ami  fulls 
The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow  " — 

even  these,  the  most  glorious  objeets  wiiich  the 
eye  of  man  ean  behold,  were  rejrarded  by  the  an- 
cients  with  sentiments  only  of  dismay  or  horror; 
as  a  barrier  from  hostile  nations,  or  as  the  dwell- 
ings of  barbarous  tribes.  The  toreh  of  religion 
liad  not  then  lightened  the  faee  of  nature;  they 
knew  not  the  language  which  she  sj)oke,  nor  felt 
tliat  holy  spirit,  whieh,  to  the  Christian,  gives  the 
sublimity  of  these  seenes.  There  is  something, 
therefore,  in  religious  reflections  on  the  objeets  or 
tlie  changes  of  nature,  which  is  peculiarly  fitting 
ill  a  Christian  teacher.  No  man  will  imiucss  tJiein 
on  his  heart  without  becoming  luippier  and  better; 
without  feeling  warmer  gratitude  lor  the  bent  fi- 
eence  of  nature,  and  deej)er  thankfulness  for  the 
means  of  knowing  the  Author  of  this  beneficence 
which  revelation  has  alTorded.  "Behold  tlie  lilies 
of  the  field,"  says  our  Saviour,  "  they  toil  not, 
neither  do  tliey  spin:  yet,  verily  I  say  unto  you, 
that  even  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory,  was  not  array- 
ed like  one  of  these."  In  these  wr)rds,  we  jureeive 
the  deep  sense  which  he  entertained  of  the  beauty 
even  of  the  minutest  of  the  works  of  nature.  If 
the  admiration  of  external  olijeets  is  not  directly 
made  the  object  of  his  preeejits,  it  is  not,  on  tliat 
account,  the  less  allied  to  the  spirit  of  religion;  it 
springs  from  the  revelation  which  he  has  made, 
and  grows  with  the  spirit  whieh  he  ineuleatcs. 
The  cultivation  of  this  feeling,  we  may  suppose,  ii 


296  YOUNG  lady's 

purposely  left  to  the  human  mind,  that  man  may 
be  inauced  to  follow  it  from  the  charms  which 
novelty  confers ;  and  the  sentiments  which  it 
awakens  are  not  expressly  enjoined,  tliat  they  may 
be  enjoyed  as  the  spontaneous  growth  of  our  own 
imagination.  While  they  seem,  however,  to  spring 
up  unbidden  in  the  mind,  they  are,  in  fact,  pro- 
duced  by  the  spirit  of  religion;  and  those  who 
imagine  that  they  are  not  the  fit  subjects  of  Chris- 
tian instruction,  are  ignorant  of  the  secret  work- 
ings,  and  finer  analogies,  of  the  faith  which  they 
profess. 

My  Daughter's  Book. 


GARDENS  AND  GARDENING. 

I  HAVE  a  love  for  every  thing  in  the  shape  of  a 
garden.  Even  that  little  square  plot  at  the  back 
of  my  house,  which  from  the  narrowness  of  its 
superficies,  and  the  height  of  its  walls,  looks  not 
unlike  a  draw-well,  and  where  a  few  straggling 
blades  of  grass  find  with  difficulty  air  and  sun- 
shine enough  to  keep  them  alive,  has  a  corner  in 
my  aff"ections.  This  love  I  am  inclined  to  regard 
as  in  some  sort  an  elementary  feeling — an  innate 
attachment,  born  with  me,  and  wanting  but  the 
presence  of  a  suitable  object  to  call  it  into  full  ac 
tivity.  From  the  fiirst  moment  I  knew  what  a 
garden  was,  I  felt  a  longing  for  some  patch  of 
earth,  however  small,  where  I  might  turn  up  the 
mould,  and  plant  and  water.  It  was  long  before 
I  had  an  opportunity  of  indulging  my  inclina- 
tion.  Window-boxes  were  recommended ;  but  they 
proved  sorry  substitutes.  I  could  not  stand  in 
them.     There  was  a  cellar  in  my  mother's  house 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  297 

in  which  the  potatoes  wore  kept.  One  or  two  of 
them  luid  rolled  into  a  corner,  and  havinfj  lain  there 
unnoticed  for  a  len<rth  of  time,  they  shot  out,  al 
hist,  sonic  lonjr  white  runners.  'I'liese  could  scarce- 
ly he  called  ve<,rctation.  They  were  colourless  and 
leafless — hut  they  were  something  grow  inj;,  and 
upon  the  ground,  and  I  watched  them  as  a  florist 
would  do  his  rarest  flower.  Our  housemaid  was 
one  of  those  unfortunate  persons  who  are  troubled 
with  a  propensity  to  tidiness,  and  one  day  when  I 
was  at  school,  she  swei)t  away  my  suhterraneoua 
garden  bodily.  I  we{)t,  and  refused  to  be  com- 
forted; till  one  day  I  observed  a  green  leaf  pro- 
truding through  a  chink  between  the  two  step.s 
by  which  we  ascended  from  the  street  to  the  door 
of  our  dwelling.  A  bean  had  dropped  into  it  by 
accident,  and  finding  a  small  portion  of  earth  at 
t!ie  bottom,  had  struck  out  roots  and  leaves.  This 
was  a  treasure,  but  one  day  some  heavy-footed 
inonstor  trampled  upon  it — it  withered.  Not  Jack 
himself,  had  he  seen  his  miraculous  bean-stalk  cut 
d(jwn  as  he  was  about  to  attempt  his  voyage  of 
discovery  to  its  summit,  could  have  sutlired  nnorc 
than  I  did.  When  about  ten  years  of  age,  it  waw 
judged  expedient  to  send  me  to  a  school  at  some 
distance  from  home;  and  there  I  at  last  attained 
what  I  had  so  long  ardently  coveted.  Each  boy 
had  a  border  allotted  to  him  in  the  master's  large 
garden,  which  he  was  allowed  to  manage  nccorii- 
ing  to  his  own  fancy.  Was  I  not  happy  ?  I  felt, 
as  I  stood  in  my  little  territory,  the  first  dawnings 
of  the  pride  and  pleasure  of  ownership,  I  watclicd 
with  unwearying  interest  the  progress  of  ivcr^ 
plant  from  its  apjxiarance  above  the  soil,  till  I  coi 
lected  its  ripe  seed.  I  changed  continually  tlit* 
arrangement  of  my  (lowers.   Mv  leisure  moment*, 


298  vouNQ  lady's 

my  little  pocket  money,  all  were  devoted  to  my 
garden.  There  was  a  tall  tree  in  the  centre  of 
it.  During  summer,  I  used  to  con  my  tasks,  or 
read  Robinson  Crusoe,  seated  up  among  the 
branches.  My  favourite  passages  were  those  that 
described  Robinson's  horticultural  attempts.  Old 
fool  that  I  am  I  What  has  carried  me  back  just 
now  to  the  days  of  my  boyhood,  and  set  me  to 
describe  childish  trifles  with  an  eager  and  accurate 
gravity,  as  strongly  contrasted  with  the  trifling 
objects  of  description,  as  the  wonderful  wealth  of 
art  lavished  by  some  Flemish  painters  upon  tJieir 
pictures  of  still  life,  with  the  meanness  of  the  pots 
and  pans  which  compose  them  ?  Strange  how 
trifles  will  at  times  assume  a  burlesque  importance- 
in  our  estimation !  I  have  experienced  many 
crosses  of  life,  but  at  this  moment  none  touches 
me  so  nearly  as  that  it  has  never  been  in  my  power 
to  indulge  my  passion  for  gardening.  That  little 
spot  of  ground — my  first,  my  only  garden — stands 
out  with  a  brightness  among  the  recollections  of 
my  life,  akin  to  tiiat  which,  in  the  mind  of  our 
tirst  father,  must  have  attached  itself  to  the  only 
spot  where  he  tasted  unalloyed  happiness.  I  have, 
however,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  managed  to  de^ 
rive  much  enjoyment  from  the  conversation  of  gar- 
deners, and  from  lounging  about  in  the  gardens 
of  others.  Bartoline  Saddletree  was  never  happy 
but  when  he  was  in  tlic  Parliament  House,  seeing 
causes  managed,  if  he  had  none  to  manage  him 
self.  I  have  known  people  to  whom  the  monthly 
perusal  of  the  "  Sporting  Magazine"  was  a  sufl!i- 
cient  sueccdaneum  for  their  inability  to  join  in  the 
sports  of  the  field.  Everybody  has  at  times  met 
with  younkers  who  wear  spurs  on  Sunday,  and 
who, 


BOOK  OK  raosK.  S99 

"  When  the  circlinB  glass  warmH  thtir  vain  hoodi. 
Can  talk  <if  liorscs  which  Ihoy  never  crowi'd. 
And  i'tincy  lb.\-hunt:i  which  they  no'cr  shall  ride.*' 

I  acknowledge  myself  to  bo  free  of  the  cor|)ora. 
tion  of  "  Woiild-be's," — one  of  those  who  loiip  for 
wliat  they  can  never  have,  and  seek  at  limes  to 
cheat  themselves,  by  dnit  of  oonversinij  with  tlio 
more  fortunate,  into  a  half  belief  that  their  wishes 
are  attained.  A  more  innocent  self-delusion  than 
mine  can  scarcely  well  be.  They  arc  a  pleasant 
set  of  fellows,  your  gardeners — both  the  profes- 
sional gentlemen  and  the  amateurs.  The  former 
in  particular  are  less  known  than  they  deserve  to 
be.  They  belong,  in  virtue  of  tiieir  breeding 
and  employment,  to  the  labouring  cl.isses;  but 
there  is  something  in  llic  scenes  by  which  they 
are  surrounded,  and  in  the  objects  upon  wliieh  tin  ir 
labour  is  expended,  calculated  to  awaken  tlie  sen- 
timents  of  romance,  and  the  aspirinirs  alter  know- 
ledge, which  are  in  general  trodden  down  and 
stilled  by  the  dull  routine-  of  meclianical  exertion. 
When  was  a  grocer  ever  known  to  have  his  love 
of  learning  excited  by  a  curiosity  to  know  the 
natural  history  of  the  articles  he  deals  in?  But 
where  shall  we  find  a  gardener  who  has  not  a 
smattering  of  botany? — ay,  and  a  comfortable  as- 
sortment  of  Latin  remnants  to  deck  the  fai^'-ends 
of  his  sentences  ?  f iawyers,  it  is  true,  have  some- 
thing  of  the  same,  but  'tlieir  Latin  want^  the  na- 
tural  grace  of  tlie  gardener's ;  they  s|XMk  accord- 
ing to  a  cold,  formal  systein — atul  a  proverbially 
bad  system  ;  but  with  the  gardener,  it  is  as  if  sontc 
handsfnll  of  Latin  words  had  been  scattered  in  Jiis 
mind,  and  had  there  struck  root,  and  si»nmg  up  in 
a  thousand  agreeable  varieties,  and  original  groups. 
But  it  may  be  said,  that  llicsc  advantages  of  tlie 


300 


YOUNG    LADY  S 


gardener  arc  common  to  all  agricultural  labourers. 
By  no  means.  There  is  something  too  wholesale 
in  the  ploughman  and  the  mower's  style  of  work 
ing.  They  do  not  care  for  a  single  plant,  but  for 
a  whole  harvest ;  and  we  never  tind  a  mind  thus 
prematurely  accustomed  to  the  contemplation  of 
vague  generalities,  susceptible  of  the  charms  of 
knowledge.  It  is  in  the  minute  attention  to  indi- 
viduals required  at  the  hand  of  the  gardener,  that 
we  are  to  look  for  the  cause  of  that  fine  discrimi- 
nating tact  that  leads  him  unavoidably  on  the  way 
to  learning.  If  Adam  had  been  any  other  trade 
than  a  gardener,  I  wonder  if  the  tree  of  knowledge 
would  have  been  so  irresistibly  tempting.  Then 
his  sentiment !  From  the  days  of  Shakspeare,  tlie 
gardener  has  been  noted  for  his  sentimentality. 
The  only  one  of  Richard  the  Second's  dependants 
who  sympathises  gracefully  with  the  miseries  of 
the  unfortunate  queen,  is  the  gardener.  What  man, 
in  his  rank  of  life,  but  a  gardener,  could  have 
thought  of  planting  a  bank  of  rue  on  the  spot 
where  the  queen  dropped  a  tear,  in  sad  memorial 
of  her  woes  ?  Then,  (not  to  overwhelm  the  reader 
with  examples,)  is  there  not  in  later  times  the 
inimitable  Andrew  Fairservice?  There  are,  we 
confess  it  with  the  deepest  regret,  some  parts  of 
Andrew's  conduct  which  do  not  easily  admit  of  a 
defence.  He  showed,  in  some  instances,  signs  of 
a  cold  and  selfish  spirit ;  even  his  honesty  was  of  a 
dubious  kind ;  and  his  courage  far  from  unques- 
tionable.  But  the  worse  we  make  Andrew's  char- 
acter to  be,  the  better  for  our  theory.  What  other 
habits  and  pursuits  could  have  rendered  such  a 
man  capable  of  the  fine  burst  of  feeling  with 
wliich  he  describes  to  Frank  Osbaldistone  the 
beauties  of  a  bed  of  coleworts  by  moonlight  ?     A 


DooK  OK  rnosr.  301 

frardener's  scnliindit,  \vc  confess,  is  rather  pcou- 
liar.  It  is  not  allied  to  lovi- — it  dors  not  atlict  tlic 
brotlicrhood  ot'  kindred  crc;iturcs  wliose  pulse  bcatji 
back  to  ours.  It  is  rarely  that  yon  hear  of  a  gar- 
dener in  love.  They  inherit  a  jwrtion  of  that  niy». 
terious  dower  which  rested  upon  those  who  in  old 
times  studied  the  liabits  and  properties  of  plants. 
Penetrating-  into  the  hidden  secrets  of  nature,  and 
approachintr  more  nearly  to  convi-rso  with  the 
spiritual  world,  they  feel  the  mantle  of  its  uuiinpa>- 
sioncd  nature  cast  around  them,  and  walk  among 
men  with  less  of  their  frail  and  leverish  passions. 
It  is  but  seldom  that  you  see  a  wife  and  children 
viewed  as  welcome  inliabitants  of  a  garden.  'I'he 
amateur  differs  little  from  the  prolessional  gar- 
dener, except  in  his  being  sometimes  a  man  of 
more  education,  and,  in  general,  free  from  the 
cares  and  anxieties  of  mercantile  speculation.  He, 
too,  is,  for  the  most  part,  a  bachelor.  Now  I  know 
there  is  a  prejudice,  in  general  hut  tfx)  well  found- 
ed, against  this  class  of  society;  but  the  gardener 
ought  to  be  made  an  exception.  He  is  not  like 
other  Benedicts,  selfish  and  engrossing;  he  has  an 
active  and  benevolent  spirit,  and  would  fain  stc  all 
people  happy.  It  is  true  that  he  loves  his  flowers 
better  than  any  thing  else — except,  perhaps,  lii.s 
cat  and  his  old  housekeeper ;  but  then  he  likes 
people  to  come  and  see  his  garden,  and  he  is  al- 
ways ready  to  impart  a  share  of  his  rarest  trea- 
sures to  those  who  can  aj)preeiale  and  enjoy  them. 
He  is  hale  and  happy,  f^jr  he  is  a  nursling  of  the 
free  air  as  much  as  any  of  his  flowers  and  shrubs. 
He  is  the  friend  and  particular  acquaintance  of 
every  bird  that  builds  its  nest  in  his  leafy  corners. 
He  cannot  abide  any  thing  that  is  harsh  or  ill-n.u 
tured.     Politics  are  liis  aversion  :  a  newsp:n>er  en- 


302  YOUNG  lady's 

ters  not  his  door.  From  the  gardener  I  turn  to 
his  territory.  (Iirdens  are  as  various  as  the  char- 
acters and  circumstances  of  their  proprietors;  and 
although,  liko  them,  they  have  all  something  in 
common,  each  has,  at  the  same  time,  something 
of  its  own.  How  different  the  garden  of  the  cot- 
tager, with  its  single  hush  of  southernwood,  its  two 
carnations,  and  solitary  rose,  from  the  extensive 
piece  of  ground  walled  in  from  th-e  northern  and 
eastern  blasts,  with  its  numerous  fruit-trees  (stand- 
ard  or  trained  upon  the  wall  and  espaliers,) — its 
thousand  flowers  of  the  gayest  dyes  and  richest 
perfumes, — its  hot-liouses  and  green-houses,  where 
the  fruits  and  flowers  of  other  regions  flourish  in 
other  climates  I  And  how  different  from  both  the 
royal  garden,  where  we  wander,  now  through 
forest  glades,  and  anon  among  trim  parterres,  sur- 
rounded by  artificial  terraces  and  gay  alcoves, 
where  the  very  water  has  yielded  to  the  power  of 
the  artist,  and  assumes  unwonted  form  and  motion 
at  his  bidding  I  All  of  these  have  their  peculiar 
charms ;  but,  as  it  would  fill  half-a-dozen  journals 
at  the  least,  to  expatiate  on  them  all,  I  must  con- 
fine myself  to  the  inquiry,  what  it  is  that  gives 
the  garden  its  chief  and  characteristic  delightful- 
ness  ?  An  idea  has  gone  abroad  in  our  days,  that 
gardens  ought  to  be  imitations  of  nature — a  most 
absurd  notion,  and  indicative  of  a  want  of  feeling 
for  the  true  charm  of  the  garden.  Our  picturesque 
gardeners  profess  to  create  beautiful  landscapes. 
The  truth  is,  that  they  create  poor  and  paltry  at- 
tempts at  something  very  fine.  Natural  scenery 
is  a  creation  on  too  large  a  scale  to  be  aped  by  the 
handywork  of  man.  But  not  only  has  this  false 
direction  of  gardening  talent  spoiled  our  larger 
gardens  it  has  exercised  a  detrimental  influence 


DOOK    OF    PROSE.  .'103 

on  tlic  smallest.  Since  it  has  been  laid  down  a.-*  a 
first  principle,  that  artificial  jjardeninpf  hIkows  a 
false  and  vitiated  taste,  and  since  the  fashi'in  of 
laying  out  cfardcns  in  what  is  called  tlic  natural 
.style  can  only  he  practised  on  a  large  scale,  such 
persons  as  have  only  a  rood  or  two  of  land,  have 
lor  some  time  contented  themselves  with  rearinjf 
fruits  and  herbs,  and  an  occasional  fiower,  cstceni- 
ing  it  in  vain  to  attempt  any  thing  ornamental  on 
so  small  a  scale.  A  square  plot  of  ground  is  mea- 
sured off*  and  surrounded  with  walls.  From  the 
centre,  four  straight  gravel  walks  are  drawn  per. 
pendicular  to  eaelj  of  the  w.'ills.  At  a  distance  of 
a  couple  of  yards  from  each  wall,  a  walk  is  laid 
out  parallel  to  it,  these  four  walks  Ibrming  a  lesser 
square  inclosurc  witliin  the  greater  one.  All  the 
walks  are  bordered  on  either  side  with  their 
edgings  of  box-wood,  two  inches  in  height.  Fruit- 
trees  and  gooseberry  bushes  are  j)lanted  at  regular 
intervals,  and  in  formal  rows.  Flowers  are  also 
planted  at  regular  distances,  so  as  not  to  incom- 
mode each  otiier.  Tliis  may  be  a  good  nursery, 
but  it  is  not  a  garden.  Its  eftect  is  stifle,  bare,  and 
unsatisfactory.  Tlic  true  garden  is  a  place  which 
a  man  has  set  apart  for  himself,  and  filled  with  all 
the  rarest  plants.  Tliese  cannot  be  arranged  or 
distributed  in  a  natural  way,  f»r  their  very  assem- 
blage  in  such  quantities  shows  that  man's  hand 
has  been  busy  upon  them.  But  still  there  is  room 
tor  ornamental  arrangement,  although  it  niust  bj 
ill  consonance  with  the  artifieial  character  of  tho 
whole  collection.  A  little  quaintness  is  rather  an 
advantage  tlian  a  drawback.  The  first  requisite 
in  a  perfect  garden  is,  that  we  should  feel,  when 
we  are  in  it,  shn.t  in  from  the  external  world. 
This  is  best  effected  by  circling  its  utmost  limit* 


304  YOUNG  lady's 

with  the  tallest  shrubs,  which  serve  to  screen  the 
garden  from  the  prying  eyes  of  neighbours,  and 
afford,  in  the  summer  time,  a  pleasing  and  umbra- 
geous canopy.  The  next  requisite  is,  that  there 
should  be  plenty  of  plants.  They  ought  to  be 
rather  crowded  than  otherwise,  so  as  to  convey  an 
impression  of  a  rich  and  luxuriant  vegetation.  In 
the  arrangement  of  the  walks,  formality  neither 
can  nor  ought  to  be  entirely  avoided.  The  feeling 
inseparable  from  a  garden,  we  have  said  above,  is, 
tiiat  it  is  a  storehouse  of  vegetable  wealth ;  and 
our  walks  ought  to  be  arranged  less  with  an  eye 
to  picturesque  effect,  than  to  the  commodious  ap- 
proach they  afford  to  our  flowers  and  shrubs.  The 
exact  manner  of  laying  them  out  must  depend 
upon  the  character  of  the  ground ;  which  is  all 
the  better  of  having  an  unequal  surface,  both  as 
that  affords  more  variety,  and  is  advantageous  to 
some  kinds  of  plants.  In  placing  hothouses,  which 
are  a  great  addition  to  every  garden,  we  must 
clioose  their  locality  at  first  with  a  view  solely  to 
utility.  They  must  stand  on  tlic  spot  which  affords 
the  best  exposure.  This  first  great  object  being 
attained,  we  must  next  consider  how  we  can  ren- 
der them  ornamental.  It  will  generally  be  found, 
that  by  disregarding  show  in  the  first  instance,  we 
have  obtained  an  opportunity  of  introducing  a 
wider  and  more  varied  beauty  into  our  garden, 
than  we  could  have  planned  beforehand.  It  is  the 
analogy  of  nature — in  sacrificing  our  immediate 
pleasure  to  the  principles  of  honour  and  justice, 
we  are  invariably  preparing  for  ourselves  a  more 
noble  and  lasting  happiness.  There  are  some  or- 
naments which,  although  not  necessary  to  a  gar- 
den, may,  in  certain  situations,  be  introduced  with 
advantage.    Where  there  is  a  great  inequality  of 


BOOK    OK    rilOSK.  30') 

ground,  terraces  laid  out,  and  dcrorati  <1  witlisonii" 
arcliitcctural  pretensions,  are  a  valuable  addition. 
When  the  enduring  irrowth  of  the  plants  has  Mih- 
dued  them  to  the  character  of  the  scene,  they 
much  enhance  the  charms  of  the  pardon.  In  more 
genial  climates  than  ours,  an  occasional  bust  or 
statue,  peeping  from  among  the  green  leaves, 
pleases  the  eye,  and  afford  liints  for  nieditalioii. 
Our  variable  weather  causes  them  to  moulder  tn,) 
quickly  away ;  and  in  winter,  they  gleam  eoldlv 
and  uncomfortably  through  the  leafless  trees.  In 
Italy,  there  is  something  exquisitely  refreshing  in 
the  play  of  fountains,  and  marble  ornaments  add 
both  to  their  apparent  coolness  and  to  their  beauty. 
With  us  they  arc  unnecessary.  "  Too  nmch  of 
water  hast  thou,  poor  Ophelia."  A  small  piece  of 
water  is,  however,  always  an  improvement  to  a 
garden.  It  is  in  keeping,  for  a  supply  of  this  cle- 
nient  is  required  in  summer  for  the  drooj>ing  How- 
ers ;  and  although  it  cannot  be  made  to  rival  the 
beauties  of  a  lake,  there  is  yet  something  ex- 
quisitely pleasing  in  its  transparency,  and  its  re- 
flections of  tree  and  sky.  A  summer-house  is 
indispensable  ;  but  it  ought  to  be  of  good  aioiw 
and  lime.  Leafy  bowers  are  fine  things  to  read 
of,  but  they  are  plagued  witli  insects.  In  general, 
too,  they  are  stiff,  and  ought  to  be  abrogated,  with 
all  the  bare  and  stunted  productions  of  what  has 
been  called  the  topiarian  art.  It  is  true,  that  our 
brief  and  uncertain  summer  affords  us  hut  a  sliort 
space  for  the  enjoyment  of  the  garden  ;  but  tliis  is 
tlie  very  reason  why  we  ought  to  make  the  most 
of  it.  In  its  embowered  shades  we  can  best  con- 
centrate our  affections  and  tiioughts,  scattered  and 
dissipated  among  the  multitudinous  cans  of  the 
world.  There  we  can  assemble  our  friends  around 
2 'J 


306  YOUNG  lady's 

us,  or  we  may  bask  alone  in  the  sun,  until  we 
seem  to  ripen  with  the  fruits  overhead,  or  sit  in 
the  breathless  hush  of  midnight,  looking  at  the 
pale  moon,  and  the  few  intensely  bright  stars 
around  her.  It  is  not  every  one  who  can  reach 
the  solitudes  of  nature,  there  to  commune  with  his 
own  heart ;  but  almost  every  one  may  have  a  gar- 
den, where  he  can  lock  out  the  dense  crowd  that 
jostles  him  in  the  st'-eets.  And  if  at  times  his 
thoughts  be  interrupted  by  the  laugh  from  some 
neighbouring  garden,  or  by  the  small  happy  voices 
of  children,  this  will  but  give  a  heartier  and  more 
human  turn  to  his  musings,  teachmg  him  how 
many  thousands  are  unconsciously  sympathising 
with  his  happiness. 

My   Daughter's  Book. 


ANCIENT  ROME. 

Unfortunately,  very  few  travellers  approach 
Rome,  in  the  first  instance,  with  the  moderate  ex- 
pectations of  Virgil's  sliepherd ;  prepared  for  no- 
thing more  splendid  than  what  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  see  at  their  own  country-towns  on 
a  market-day.  They  have  taken  on  trust  the  de- 
scriptions of  the  poets,  and  orators,  and  historians, 
of  a  country  fertile  in  such  characters ;  and  the 
Queen  of  Cities,  throned  upon  her  seven  hills  in 
marble  majesty,  the  mistress  of  a  world  conquered 
by  the  valour  of  her  sons,  holds  up  to  them  a  pic- 
ture, the  effect  of  which  they  are  perhaps  unwil- 
ling to  spoil  by  filling  up  all  its  parts  with  too 
curious  accuracy ;  otherwise  it  is  certain  that  in- 
formation enough  is  to  be  obtained  from  Roman 


BOOK  OF  raosK.  307 

authors  to  prepare  them  for  a  scene  of  much  more 
moderate  splendour  in  the  capital  of  Italy.  From 
them  they  might  have  learned,  betore  they  j)ut 
themselves  on  board  the  packet,  tliat  all  tJioso 
points  upon  which  the  imagination  reposes  with 
so  much  complacency,  are  perfectly  consistent  with 
disorder,  and  misery,  and  filth  ;  they  might  have 
learned,  that  the  Tiber  was  of  old  but  a  torpid  and 
muddy  stream;  that  lieretoforc  the  streets  of  Rome 
were  dark  and  narrow,  and  crooked ;  that  cur. 
wages  of  pleasure,  (of  which,  by  the  by,  the  c«r. 
pentum,  one  of  the  most  conmion,  probably  very 
little  surpassed  our  tilting  ajid  jolting  ta.\-cart) 
were  by  law  prohibited  from  ezitering  tliem  except 
on  certain  days,  so  little  space  was  there  for  driv- 
ing; that  the  sedans,  which  were  used  in  tlieir 
stead,  put  the  people  to  infinite  confusion  ;  that 
there  were  few  scavengers,  and  no  lamps ;  that 
when  a  Roman  returned  home  from  a  supper-party, 
he  had  to  pick  his  way  along  with  a  horn  lantern, 
and  bless  himself  if  he  reached  his  own  door  witli- 
out  a  shower  from  an  attic  alighting  on  his  cap  of 
liberty ;  that  the  porticoes  and  approaches  to  the 
baths  were  subject  to  every  species  of  defilement, 
eo  that  even  the  symbols  of  religion  were  enlisted 
for  their  protection ;  that  the  statues  with  which 
the  city  was  peopled  were  treated  with  that  con- 
tempt which  Launce  would  have  rebuked  even  in 
his  dog;  that  the  images  of  the  gods  were  disfigured 
by  painted  faces  and  gilded  beards;  and  that  though 
the  Venus  do'  Medici  never  appeared  in  a  hooped 
petticoat,  nor  the  Apollo  Belviderc  in  a  blue  swal- 
low-tailcd  coat  with  metal  buttons,  yet  that  tJic 
costume  of  the  day,  whatever  it  was,  was  very 
.generally  bestowed  on  the  representatives  of  Hea- 
ven ;  that  the  houses  were  for  the  most  part  brick. 


308  YOUNG    lady's 

many  of  them  crazy,  and  supported  upon  props, 
and  that  such  as  belonged  to  a  patrician  himsehi 
had  often  the  groimd-floor  assigned  to  a  huckster 
or  a  dealer  in  oil ;  that  in  the  windows  \^which 
were  few  in  number)  glass  was  seldom,  if  ever,  to 
be  seen,  but,  in  its  stead,  a  dimly  transparent  stone, 
or  shutter  of  wood ;  that,  from  a  want  of  chimneys, 
the  rooms  were  full  of  smoke,  which  was  left  to 
make  its  escape  by  the  tile?,  the  windows,  and  the 
door ;  that  on  this  account  Vitruvius  expressly  for- 
bade carved  work  or  mouldings,  except  in  the  sum- 
mer apartments,  where  no  fire  was  admitted,  be- 
cause in  the  others  they  would  be  covered  with 
soot;  that,  amongst  the  accomplishments  of  a  cook, 
it  was  expected  that  he  should  be  skilful  in  de- 
tecting \\  hich  way  the  wind  blew,  lest,  if  he  opened 
the  wrong  kitchen-window,  the  smoke  should  be 
driven  into  the  broth  ; — that,  under  these  circum- 
stances, the  ancestors  of  a  Roman  gentleman, 
vv^hen  ihey  had  occupied  the  niches  of  his  hall  for  a 
few  years,  bore  a  very  striking  resemblance  to  mo- 
dern chimney-sweepers;  that  the  Romans  made  as 
much  use  of  their  fingers  at  a  meal  as  Englishmen 
do  of  their  forks  ;  and  that  Ovid,  in  his  Art  of  Love, 
gives  it  as  a  piece  of  Chesterfield  advice  to  the 
young  gallants  of  his  time,  "  not  to  smear  their 
mouths  with  their  greasy  hands"  more  than  neces- 
sary ;  that  a  mappa,  or  napkin,  for  each  individual, 
was  thus  absolutely  requisite  ;  that  every  guest 
brought  his  own,  and,  lest  the  gravy  and  sauce- 
boats  overturned  should  not  do  it  tull  justice,  it  was 
made  further  serviceable  as  a  pocket-handkerchief  I 
Tliey  might  have  learned,  moreover,  from  the  same 
authorities,  that  tlie  middle  ranks  of  tlie  citizens 
were  clad  in  white  woollen  vestures,  which  were, 
of  course,  as  habitually  dirty  as  might  be  expected 


BOOK    OF    TROSE.  30!) 

from  the  general  poverty  of  the  wearers,  wliilst 
the  baser  plebeians,  not  able  to  aftcct  this  shabby 
gentility,  contented  themselves  with  garnierils  of 
the  eolour,  and  quality,  and  neatness,  of  a  incMuli- 
cant  friar's;  that  their  shirts,  too,  were  conjposed 
of  the  same  material ;  and  that  from  tliesc  cau:ies, 
aided  by  the  blessing  of  a  warm  climate,  and  the 
plentiful  use  of  garlic,  the  effluvium  of  their  public 
assemblies  was  so  offensive,  that,  even  in  a  rootless 
theatre,  the  emperor  found  it  expedient  to  sprinkle 
his  faithful  subjects  with  showers  of  rose-water ; 
— and,  having  duly  weighed  these,  and  siiniLir 
points  of  minute  history,  they  might  certainly  have 
brought  themselves  to  adopt  n)orc  sober  views  of 
tlie  magnitieence  of  ancient  Rome,  and  an  ancient 
Roman,  and  have  advanced  to  the  Porta  del  Popolo 
with  the  reasonable  chance  of  having  their  ajitiLti- 
pations,  in  many  respects  at  least,  completelv  ful- 
filled. 

Quarterly  Review. 


INTELLECTUAL  aUALITIES  OF  MILTOX. 

In  speaking  of  the  intellectual  qualities  of  Mil- 
ton, we  may  begin  with  observing,  that  the  very 
splendour  of  his  poetic  fame  has  tended  to  ol)scure 
or  conceal  the  extent  of  his  mind,  and  the  variety 
of  its  energies  and  attainments.  To  many  he  seems 
only  a  poet;  when  in  truth  he  was  a  profound 
scholar,  a  man  of  vast  compass  of  thought,  imbued 
thoroughly  with  all  ancient  and  modern  learning, 
and  able  to  master,  to  mould,  to  impregnate  with 
his  own  intellectual  power,  his  great  and  various 
acquisitions. 


810  *  YOUNG    lady's 

He  had  not  learned  the  superficial  doctrine  of  a 
later  day,  that  poetry  flourishes  most  in  an  uncul. 
tivated  soil,  and  that  imagination  shapes  its  bright- 
est visions  from  the  mists  of  a  superstitious  age ; 
and  he  had  no  dread  of  accumulating  knowledge, 
lest  it  should  oppress  and  smother  his  genius.  He 
was  conscious  of  that  within  him,  which  could 
quicken  all  knowledge,  and  wield  it  with  ease  and 
might ;  which  could  give  freshness  to  old  truths, 
and  harmony  to  discordant  thoughts ;  which  could 
bind  together,  by  living  ties  and  mysterious  affini- 
ties, the  most  remote  discoveries,  and  rear  fabrics 
of  glory  and  beauty  from  the  rude  materials  which 
other  minds  had  collected. 

Milton  had  that  universality  which  marks  the 
highest  order  of  intellect.  Though  accustomed, 
almost  from  infancy,  to  drink  at  the  fountains  of 
classical  literature,  he  had  nothing  of  the  pedantry 
and  fastidiousness  which  disdain  all  other  draughts. 
His  healthy  mind  delighted  in  genius,  on  whatever 
soil,  or  in  whatever  age,  it  burst  forth  and  poured 
out  its  fullness.  He  understood  too  well  the  rights^ 
and  dignity,  and  pride,  of  creative  imagination,  to 
lay  on  it  the  laws  of  the  Greek  or  Roman  schools^ 
Parnassus  was  not  to  him  the  only  holy  ground  of 
genius. 

He  felt  that  poetry  was  as  a  universal  presence. 
Great  minds  were  everywhere  his  kindred.  He 
felt  the  enchantment  of  oriental  fiction,  surren> 
dered  himself  to  the  strange  creations  of  "Araby 
the  Blest,"  and  delighted  still  more  in  the  roman- 
tic spirit  of  chivalry,  and  in  the  tales  of  wonder  in 
which  it  v/as  embodied.  Accordingly,  his  poetry 
reminds  us  of  the  ocean,  which  adds  to  its  own 
boundlessness  contributions  from  all  regions  undev 
heaYen.    Nor  was  it  only  in  the  department  of 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  311 

imagination  that  liis  acquisitions  were  vast.  He 
travelled  over  the  whole  held  of  knowledge,  as  iar 
as  it  had  then  heen  explored. 

His  various  philological  attainments  were  used 
to  put  him  in  possession  of  the  wisdom  stored  in 
all  countries  where  the  intellect  had  heen  culti- 
vated. The  natural  philosophy,  metaphysics,  eth- 
ics, history,  theology,  and  political  science  of  his 
own  and  former  times,  were  tamiliar  to  him.  Never 
was  there  a  more  uncontined  mind ;  and  we  would 
cite  Milton  as  a  practical  example  of  the  henefits 
of  that  universal  culture  of  intellect,  which  tbrnis 
one  distinction  of  our  times,  but  which  sonic  dread, 
as  unfriendly  to  original  thought. 

Let  such  remember,  that  mind  is  in  its  own  na- 
ture diffusive.  Its  object  is  the  universe,  which  is 
strictly  one,  or  bound  together  by  infinite  connex- 
ions and  correspondences;  and  accordingly  its  na- 
tural progress  is  from  one  to  another  field  of 
thought :  and  wherever  original  power,  creative 
genius,  exists,  the  mind,  far  from  being  distracted 
or  oppressed  by  the  variety  of  its  acquisitions,  will 
sec  more  and  more  common  bearings  and  hidden 
and  beautiful  analogies  in  all  the  objects  of  know- 
ledge;  will  sec  mutual  liglit  shed  from  truth  to 
truth;  and  will  compel,  as  with  a  kingly  power, 
whatever  it  understands,  to  yield  some  tribute  of 
proof,  or  illustration,  or  splendour,  to  whatever 
topic  it  would  unfold.  Chanmng. 


ON  THE  GREAT  HISTORICAL  AGES. 

Ever v'age  has  produced  heroes  and  politicians , 
all  nations  have  exjK-rienced  revolutions  ;  and  all 
histories  are  nearly  alike,  to  those  who  seek  only 


312  YOUNG    lady's 

to  furnish  their  memories  with  facts  ;  but  whoso- 
ever  thinks,  or,  what  is  still  more  rare,  whosoever 
has  taste,  will  find  but  four  ages  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  These  four  happy  ages  are  those  in 
which  the  arts  were  carried  to  perfection  ;  and 
which,  by  serving  as  the  era  of  the  greatness  of 
the  human  mind,  are  examples  for  posterity. 

The  iirst  of  these  ages  to  which  true  glory  is 
annexed,  is  that  of  Philip  and  Alexander,  or  th&' 
of  a  Pericles,  a  Demosthenes,  an  Aristotle,  a  Plato, 
an  Apelles,  a  Phidias,  and  a  Praxiteles ;  and  this 
honour  has  been  confined  within  the  limits  of  an- 
cient Greece :  the  rest  of  the  known  world  was 
then  in  a  state  of  barbarism. 

The  second  age  is  that  of  Ccesar  and  Augustus, 
distinguislied  likewise  by  the  names  of  Lucretius, 
Cicero,  Titus,  Livius,  Virgil,  Horace,  Ovid,  Varro, 
and  Vitruvius. 

The  third  is  that  which  followed  the  taking  of 
Constantinople  by  Mahomet  II.  Then  a  family 
of  private  citizens  were  seen  to  do  that  which  the 
kings  of  Europe  ought  to  have  undertaken.  The 
Medicis  invited  to  Florence  the  learned,  who  had 
been  driven  out  of  Greece  by  the  Turks. — This 
was  the  age  of  Italy's  glory.  The  polite  arts  had 
already  recovered  a  new  life  in  that  country ;  the 
Italians  honoured  them  with  the  title  of  Virtu,  as  the 
first  Greeks  had  distinguished  them  by  the  name 
of  Wisdom.  Every  tiling  tended  tov.'ards  perfec- 
tion ;  a  Michael  Angelo,  a  Raphael,  a  Titian,  a 
Tasso,  and  an  Ariosto,  flourished.  The  art  of  en- 
graving was  invented ;  elegant  architecture  ap- 
peared again,  as  admirable  as  in  the  most  triumph- 
ant ages  of  Rome;  and  the  Gothic  barbarism,  which 
had  disfigured  Europe  in  every  kind  of  production, 
was  driven  fi:om  Italy,  to  make  way  for  good  taste. 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  313 

The  arts,  always  transplanted  from  Greece  to 
Italy,  found  themselves  in  a  favourable  soil,  where 
they  instantly  produecd  fruit.  France,  England, 
Germany,  and  Spain,  aimed  in  their  turns  to  gather 
these  fruits;  but  either  they  could  not  live  in  tliose 
climates,  or  else  they  degenerated  very  fast. 

Francis  I.  encouraged  learned  men,  but  such  as 
were  merely  learned  men  :  he  had  architects  ;  but 
he  had  no  Miciiacl  Angelo,  nor  Falladio  :  he  en- 
deavoured in  vain  to  establish  schools  for  jjainting; 
the  Italian  masters  whom  he  invited  to  France, 
raised  no  pupils  there.  Some  epigrams  and  a  few 
loose  tales  made  the  whole  of  our  poetry.  Rabe- 
lais was  the  only  prose  writer  in  vogue,  in  the 
time  of  Henry  II. 

In  a  word,  the  Italians  alone  were  in  possession 
of  every  thing  that  was  beautiful,  excepting  music, 
which  was  then  but  in  a  rude  state ;  and  experi- 
mental philosophy,  which  was  everywhere  equally 
unknown. 

Lastly,  the  fourth  age  is  that  known  by  tin; 
iKime  of  the  age  of  Lewis  XIV.,  and  is  perhaps  that 
which  approaches  the  nearest  to  perfection  of  all 
the  four  ;  enriched  by  the  discoveries  of  the"  three 
former  ones,  it  has  done  greater  things  in  certain 
kinds  than  those  three  together.  All  the  arts,  in- 
deed, were  not  carried  farther  than  under  the  Mo- 
dicis,  Augustus,  and  Alexander;  but  human  reason 
in  general  was  more  improved.  In  this  age  wo 
first  became  acquainted  with  sound  philosophy.  It 
may  truly  be  said,  that  from  the  last  years  of  Car- 
dinal Richeheu's  administration  till  those  which 
followed  the  deatli  of  Lewis  XIV.,  there  has  hajv 
pened  such  a  general  revolution  in  our  arts,  our 
genius,  our  manners,  and  even  in  our  government, 
as  will  serve  as  an  immortal  mark  to  the  true  glory 


314  YOUNG  lady's 

of  our  country.  This  happy  influence  has  not  been 
confined  to  France ;  it  has  communicated  itself  to 
England,  where  it  has  stirred  up  an  emulation 
which  that  ingenious  and  deeply-learned  nation 
stood  in  need  of  at  that  time ;  it  has  introduced 
taste  into  Germany,  and  the  sciences  into  Russia  ; 
it  has  even  reanimated  Italy,  which  was  languish- 
'ng;  and  Europe  is  indebted  for  its  politeness  and 
spirit  of  society,  to  the  court  of  Lewis  XIV. 

Before  this  time,  the  Italians  called  all  the  peo- 
ple on  this  side  the  Alps  by  the  name  of  Barba- 
rians. It  must  be  owned  tliat  tlie  French,  in  some 
degree,  deserved  this  reproachful  epithet.  Our  fore- 
fathers joined  the  romantic  gallantry  of  the  Moors 
with  the  Gothic  rudeness.  They  had  hardly  any 
of  the  agreeable  arts  amongst  them ;  which  is  a 
proof  that  the  useful  arts  were  likewise  neglected ; 
for,  when  once  the  things  of  use  are  carried  to 
perfection,  the  transition  is  quickly  made  to  the 
elegant  and  the  agreeable ;  and  it  is  not  at  all  as- 
tonishing, tliat  painting,  sculpture,  poetry,  elo- 
quence, and  philosophy,  should  be  in  a  manner 
unknown  to  a  nation,  who,  though  possessed  of 
harbours  on  the  Western  ocean  and  the  Mediter- 
ranean sea,  were  without  ships ;  and,  who,  though 
fond  of  luxury  to  an  excess,  were  hardly  provided 
with  the  most  common  manufactures. 

The  Jews,  the  Genoese,  the  Venetians,  the  Por- 
tuguese, the  Flemish,  the  Dutch,  and  the  English, 
carried  on,  in  their  turns,  the  trade  of  France, 
which  was  ignorant  even  of  the  first  principles  of 
commerce.  Lewis  XIII.,  at  his  accession  to  the 
crown,  had  not  a  single  ship ;  the  city  of  Paris 
contained  not  quite  four  hundred  thousand  men, 
and  had  not  above  four  fine  public  edifices ;  the 
other  cities  of  the  kingdom  resembled  those  pitiful 


BOOK    OF    PROSK.  Gl."! 

villages  which  \vc  see  on  tlic  other  side  of  «Jie  Loire. 
The  nobility,  who  were  all  stationed  in  the  coun- 
try, in  dungeons  surrounded  with  deep  dilches, 
oppressed  the  peasant  who  cultivated  the  land. 
Tiie  high  roads  were  almost  impassable;  the  towns 
were  destitute  of  police  ;  and  the  govermnent  had 
hardly  any  credit  among  foreign  nations. 

We  must  acknowledge,  that,  ever  since  the  de- 
clinc  of  tlie  Carlovingian  family,  France  had  lan- 
guished more  or  less  in  this  intirm  state,  merely 
for  want  of  the  benelit  of  a  good  administration. 

For  a  state  to  be  powerful,  the  people  nnist  either 
enjoy  a  liberty  founded  on  the  laws,  or  the  royal 
authority  must  be  fixed  beyond  all  opposition.  In 
France,  the  people  were  slaves  till  the  reign  of 
Philip  Augustus ;  the  noblemen  were  tyrants  till 
Lewis  XL ;  and  the  kings,  always  employed  in 
maintaining  their  authority  against  their  vassals, 
had  neither  leisure  to  think  about  the  happiness 
of  their  subjects,  nor  the  jmwer  of  making  them 
happy, 

Lewis  XL  did  a  great  deal  for  the  regal  power, 
but  nothing  for  the  happiness  or  glory  of  the  na- 
tion. Francis  L  gave  birth  to  trade,  navigation, 
and  all  the  arts  :  but  he  was  too  unfortunate  to 
make  them  take  root  in  the  nation  during  his  time, 
so  that  tliey  all  perished  with  him.  Iknry  the 
Great  was  on  the  point  of  raising  France  from  the 
calamities  and  barbarisms  in  which  she  !iad  been 
plunged  by  thirty  years  of  discord,  when  he  was 
assassinated  in  his  capital,  in  the  midst  ol'a  people 
whom  he  had  begun  to  make  happ^.  The  Cardinal 
do  Richelieu,  busied  in  humbling  the  house  of  Auk 
tria,  tlic  Calvinists,  and  the  grandees,  did  jjot  enjoy 
a  power  suilicicnlly  undisturbed  to  reform  tlic  aa- 


316  YOUNG  lady's 

tion ;  but  he  had  at  least  the  honour  of  beginning 
this  happy  work. 

Thus,  for  the  space  of  900  years,  our  genius  had 
been  almost  always  restrained  under  a  Gothic  go- 
vernment, in  the  midst  of  divisions  and  civil  wars; 
destitute  of  any  laws  or  fixed  customs ;  changing 
every  second  century  a  language  which  still  con- 
tinued rude  and  unformed.  The  nobles  were  with- 
out discipline,  and  strangers  to  every  thing  but 
war  and  idleness :  the  clergy  lived  in  disorder  and 
ignorance ;  and  the  common  people  without  indus- 
try, and  stupefied  in  their  wretchedness. 

The  French  had  no  share  either  in  the  great 
discoveries,  or  admirable  inventions  of  other  na- 
tions: they  have  no  title  to  the  (J^scoveries  of  print- 
ing, gunpowder,  glasses,  telescopes,  the  sector, 
compass,  the  air-pump,  or  the  true  system  of  the 
universe :  they  were  making  tournaments,  while 
the  Portuguese  and  Spaniards  were  discovering 
and  conquering  new  countries  from  the  east  to  the 
west  of  the  known  world.  Charles  V.  had  already 
scattered  the  treasures  of  Mexico  over  Europe,  be- 
fore the  subjects  of  Francis  I.  had  discovered  the 
uncultivated  country  of  Canada ;  but  by  the  little 
which  the  French  did  in  the  beginning  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  we  may  see  what  they  are  capable 
of  when  properly  conducted. 

Voltaire. 


THE  LADIES  OF  LLANGOLLEN. 

There  are  few  who  have  not  heard  of  the  ladies 
of  Llangollen ;  perhaps  a  short  account  of  whom 
may  not  be  considered  uninteresting,  and  I  know 


BOOK  or  riiosK.  317 

no  better  authority  for  it  that  the  niomoirs  of  the 
Comtesse  de  Genlis,  who  lias  thrown  a  consider- 
able degree  of  romance  around  tlieni  and  th(;ir 
abode.  The  Comtesse  states,  that  while  she  wa.s 
staying  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  accompanied  by 
Mademoiselle  D'Orleaiis,  the  sister  of  the  present 
duke,  she  met  Lord  C'astlereagh,  afterwards  tlie 
Marquis  of  Londonderry ;  and  having  observed, 
in  the  course  of  the  conversation,  tiiat  she  would 
willingly  travel  a  long  journey  for  the  sake  of 
seeing  two  persons  who  had  been  long  united  by 
a  sincere  bond  of  friendship :  "  Then,  Madam," 
said  he,  "you  should  go  to'Iilangollen,  where  yo'j 
will  see  a  model  of  perfect  friendship  ;"  and  at 
the  Comtesse's  request,  he  related  the  following 
memoir  : —  ** " 

Lady  EJcanor  Butler,  then  (1798)  about  twenty, 
eight  years  of  age,  was  born  in  ])ublin;  an  or- 
phan from  the  cradle,  and  a  rich,  amiable,  and 
lovely  heiress,  her  hand  was  sought  by  persons 
of  the  best  families  in  Ireland,  but  she  very  early 
announced  her  repugnance  to  marriage.  This 
taste  for  independence  slie  never  concealed;  yet 
no  woman  was  ever  more  remarkable  for  mild- 
ness, modesty,  and  all  the  virtues  that  embellish 
her  sex.  From  earliest  infancy  she  was  the  in- 
timate friend  of  Miss  Ponsonby;  by  a  singular 
coincidence  of  events,  (which  struck  their  imagi- 
nations,) they  were  botii  born  at  Dublin,  in  the 
same  year,  and  on  the  same  day,  and  they  be- 
came orphans  at  the  same  period.  It  was  easy 
for  them  to  fancy  from  this,  that  heaven  had  ere- 
atcd  them  for  each  other,  to  perform  together  the 
voyage  of  life ;  their  sensibility  enal)led  them  to 
realize  this  illusion.     Their  friendship  increased 


318  YOUNG  lady's 

with  their  age,  so  that  at  seventeen  they  mutually 
promised  to  preserve  their  hbcrty,  and  never  part 
from  each  other.  They  formed,  from  that  moment, 
the  plan  of  withdrawing  from  the  world,  and  affix- 
ing themselves  for  ever  in  the  profoundest  solitude. 
Having  heard  of  the  charming  landscapes  of 
Wales,  they  made  a  secret  journey  thither,  in  or- 
der  to  choose  their  place  of  retreat. 

They  arrived  at  Llangollen,  and  there  found,  on 
the  summit  of  a  mountain,  a  little  isolated  cottage, 
of  which  the  situation  seemed  to  them  delicious  ; 
there  it  was  they  resolved  to  fix  their  abode.  The 
guardians  of  the  young  fugitives,  however,  traced 
their  steps,  and  brought  them  back  to  Dublin. 
They  declared  that  they  would  return  to  their 
mountain,  as  soon  as  they  had  attained  their  ma- 
jority. In  fact,  at  twenty-one,  in  spite  of  all  the 
entreaties  and  arguments  of  their  relatives,  they 
quitted  Ireland  for  ever,  and  went  to  Llangollen. 
Miss  Ponsonby  was  not  rich,  but  Lady  Eleanor 
possessed  a  considerable  fortune;  she  purchased 
the  little  cottage  of  the  peasants,  and  the  land 
about  the  mountain,  and  built  a  house  upon  its  site, 
of  which  the  outside  is  extremely  simple,  but  the 
interior  is  of  the  greatest  elegance. 

The  two  friends  still  possessed,  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  a  meadow  for  their  flocks,  a  beautiful  farm- 
house,  and  a  kitchen-garden.  These  two  extraor- 
dinary persons,  both  of  whom  possessed  the  most 
cultivated  minds,  and  the  most  charming  accom- 
plishments, have  lived  in  that  solitude  for  seven 
years  (1788,)  without  having  slept  out  of  it  in  a 
single  instance.  Nevertheless,  they  are  far  from  re- 
served ;  they  frequently  pay  visits  at  the  neighbour- 
ing gentlemen's  houses,  and  receive,  with  equal  po- 


BOOK    OF    PROSE.  319 

litencss  and  kindness,  travellers,  who  an;  eitlRT 
coming'  from  or  gointr  to  Ireland,  and  who  arc 
recommended  to  their  attention  l)y  their  old  friends. 

Madame  and  her  protege,  the  young  princess, 
undertook  the  journey  to  Llangollen,  and  they 
were  received  with  grace  and  cordiality.  She 
saw  nothing  in  them  of  that  vanity  which  is  grati- 
fied by  awakening  the  astonishment  of  otliers ; 
they  loved  each  otiicr,  and  lived  in  that  sjx)t  with 
so  much  simplicity,  that  wonder  soon  subsided 
into  a  toucliing-  interest;  every  thing  was  genuine 
and  natural  in  their  manners  and  conversation. — 
They  possessed  an  excellent  library  of  the  Ix-st 
English,  French,  and  Italian  authors,  who  afford- 
ed  them  an  inexhaustible  source  of  amusement. 
The  interior  of  the  house  was  remarkable  for  the 
beauty  of  its  proportions,  the  convenient  distribu- 
tion  of  the  apartments,  the  elegance  of  the  orna- 
ments and  the  furniture,  and  the  beautiful  views 
which  were  so  visible  from  all  the  windows.  The 
drawing-room  was  adorned  with  charming  land- 
scapes drawn  and  painted  after  nature  by  Miss 
Ponsonby. — Lady  Eleanor  was  a  very  good  nm- 
sician  ;  and  both  had  filled  their  solitary  dw(  lling 
with  embroidery,  of  which  the  work  was  extraor- 
dinary. The  arts  were  cultivated  with  en,ual  suc- 
cess and  modesty ;  and  you  admired  their  produc- 
tions on  this  secluded  spot  with  a  feeling  which 
you  could  not  experience  elsewhere;  you  were  de- 
lighted to  find,  in  that  peaceful  retreat,  so  much 
merit,  sheltered  from  the  attacks  of  satire  and  of 
envy,  and  talents  that,  free  from  ostentation  and 
pritle,  were  derived,  in  that  spot,  from  other  suf- 
frages than  those  of  friendshii). 

During   the   ilight   they  slept   at  the   cottage, 


320  BOOK   OF   PROSE. 

Madame  de  Genlis  heard,  for  the  first  time,  a 
species  of  melody,  as  mysterious  as  new.  She 
found  next  morning,  that  it  proceeded  from  an  in- 
strument in  England,  called  an  "^olian  Harp," 
on  which,  she  beautifully  remarks,  it  is  natural 
enough  tliat  such  an  instrument  sliould  have  origi- 
nated in  an  island  of  storms,  amid  tempests,  of 
which  it  softens  the  terrors.  I  must  not  quit  Llan- 
gollen, she  proceeds,  without  mentioning  the  pure 
manners  of  that  part  of  Wales :  the  two  friends 
assured  us  that  such  is  their  honesty,  that  often, 
when  they  \et\  their  mountain  to  walk  in  the 
neighbourhood,  they  left  the  key  in  the  cottage 
door,  and  were  never  robbed  of  any  thing,  though 
they  had  a  considerable  quantity  of  silver-plate 
and  other  valuable  articles  which  might  have  been 
carried  away.  The  inns  of  Llangollen  were  dis- 
tinguished by  the  neatness  peculiar  to  England. 

Anon. 


THE    END. 


This  book  IS  DUE  on  the  last 
I  date  stamped  below. 


^r  The  young  lady ' 
1285  book  of  elegant 
Y38   prose 


B  000  000  697  3 


PR 

1235 

Y33 


'-^'[iWi 


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